ETHESDA 


ARBARA    EL.BON 


BERTRAMS 
ACRES  OF-  BOOKS 
UO  PACIFIC  AVENlkE 
I  ONa_«*A<3«. 


BETHESDA 


BETHESDA 


BY 

BARBARA  ELBON 


forft 

MACMILLAN    &    CO. 
1884 


COPYRIGHT 

BY 
GEORGE  W.  DILLAWAY 

1884 


17-17017 


"  Thou  art  my  dream  come  true,  and  tliou  my  dream, 

Thou  art  what  I  would  be,  yet  only  seem  ; 
Thou  art  my  heaven  and  my  hell ; 
Thou  art  my  ever-living  judgment-day." 

K.  W.  GILUEU. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"A  face  at  once  young,  grand,  and  beautiful,  where,  if  there  is  any 
melancholy,  it  is  no  feeble  passivity,  but  enters  into  the  foreshadowed 
capabilities  of  heroism." — GEORGE  ELIOT. 

BETWEEN  Genoa  and  Florence  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  bits 
of  the  far-famed  Cornice  Road.  On  leaving  the  superb  city 
the  railway  winds  through  orange  and  pomegranate  groves, 
along  oleander  hedges,  across  narrow  valleys  made  by  hills 
which  are  clothed  in  olive  orchards  and  crowned  by  Italian 
pines.  It  rises  and  falls  obedient  to  the  dictates  of  nature, 
yielding  to  obstructions  only  to  conquer  them,  and  now  runs  by 
the  foaming  Mediterranean,  and  again  crosses  a  sea-rent  chasm 
at  a  dizzy  altitude.  High  crags,  pedestals  for  single  trees,  rise 
abruptly  from  the  waves  that  dash  against  their  base ;  while  on 
some  of  the  larger  rocks  castles  are  built,  or  gray- walled  villages, 
with  a  bit  of  beach  beneath  where  fishing -boats  lie  in  deep 
colouring  of  red  and  brown.  The  people  run  out  in  peasant 
array  at  the  sound  of  the  engine-bell,  and,  on  one  of  the  first 
winter  days  in  187 — ,  the  inhabitants  of  the  rocky  fastnesses 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  girl's  face  which  seemed  a  human  type 
akin  to  that  of  the  landscape.  It  was  not  lacking  in  strength, 
but  showed  a  pre-eminent  refinement,  which  was  full  of  pas- 
sionate sensitiveness.  The  features  were  finely  cut,  and  the 
complexion  of  a  clear  pallor,  which  made  more  forceful  the 
long  eyebrows  slightly  curving  over  large  hazel  eyes,  and  the 
golden-brown  hair  which  was  drawn  simply  away  from  a  fore- 
head capable  of  much  serenity.  In  animation  the  changes  of 
warm  sunshine  and  soft  shadow  which  characterised  the  view 
were  here  also ;  but  in  repose  a  sadness  of  expression  settled 
upon  the  face,  often  seen  in  countenances  denoting  at  once 
youth  and  earnestness.  To-day,  however,  there  was  added  an 
anxiety  which  the  beauty  of  the  view  could  not  dissipate. 
£  6 


2  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

This  was  her  twentieth  birthday,  and  standing  by  the  carriage 
window  she  looked  off  over  the  water  to  the  far  horizon,  trying 
in  vain  to  pierce  its  pearly  veil,  as  if  thus  she  might  see  the 
future.  She  had  endeavoured  to  throw  aside  the  vague  feeling 
which  weighed  upon  her,  but  no  effort  could  overcome  an 
oppressive  dread,  the  effects  of  which  troubled  her  aunt,  who 
was  watching  her,  Mrs.  Trescott,  the  only  other  occupant  of  the 
carriage. 

"  Come  here,  Beth,  and  tell  me  what  is  the  matter,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  Must  birthday  thoughts  be  so  very  melancholy  ? 
I  wanted  you  to  have  a  happy  day,  and  you  said  nothing  would 
gratify  you  so  much  as  reaching  Florence.  Did  you  overtax 
your  strength?  Are  you  too  tired,  dear?" 

The  last  sentence  was  added  with  increased  anxiety  in 
noticing  the  jasmine  pallor  and  an  unwonted  weariness  in  the 
eyes  Beth  turned  towards  her. 

"  No,  indeed,  dear  auntie,"  answered  the  girl,  seating  herself, 
however.  "I  am  not  more  tired  than  I  naturally  must  be 
after  the  long  journey." 

"  Well,  then,  what  is  it,  pet  1  The  day  is  perfect,  the  views 
lovely,  and  you  are  on  your  way  to  the  place  where  you  say  you 
have  longed  to  be  all  the  year :  our  own  rooms  at  Florence. 
Don't  have  secrets  from  me,  dear;  why  should  your  birthday  be 
sad?" 

"  Not  sad,  auntie ;  only "  She  moved  so  as  to  turn 

her  face  away  before  she  continued.  "  It  is  very  foolish  of  me, 
I  know,  but  I  can't  remember  how  many  years  it  is  that  I  have 
felt  the  decade  opening  to-day  was  to  be  of  great  importance  to 
me.  I  am  sure  some  decisive  test  of  character  will  come  BOOH, 
which  I  fear,  I  greatly  fear,  I  may  not  bear  worthily." 

Her  voice  stopped  suddenly.  There  had  been  an  unusual 
quiver  of  feeling  in  it  from  the  first,  which  now  increased  so  as 
to  make  speech  dangerous.  She  was  not  given  to  superstitious 
fancies,  but  this  had  grown  in  her  until  it  seemed  to  cast  a  long 
shadow  over  the  coming  years. 

Mrs.  Trescott  was  of  a  much  less  reasonable  temperament 
than  her  niece,  but  she  was  also  prone  to  think  that  the  "  feel- 
ings "  of  others  were  not  to  be  relied  upon,  whatever  her  own 
might  -be  ;  so  she  only  thought,  "  The  child  is  too  tired,"  and 
said  in  a  cheery  tone: 

"  Why,  what  a  foolish  girl !     You  are  always  lecturing  me 


CHAP,  i.]  THE  STIRRING  OF  SEED.  3 

for  putting  faith  in  such  nonsense,  and  here  you  are  twice  as 
silly,  I'm  sure.  Besides,  I  haven't  had  the  training  of  you  for 
nothing.  If  you  did  have  a  '  test/  you  would  come  out  of  it 
with  flying  colours.  /  am  not  afraid." 

"  But  that  only  makes  me  more  so,"  answered  the  girl,  with 
increased  earnestness.  "  You  have  too  much  confidence  in  me, 
auntie ;  I  have  never  done  anything  to  deserve  it.  Don't  you 

see How  can  you  tell  what  will  be  my  temptations,  or 

how  I  will  resist  them  ?  No  one  can.  And  so Well,  it 

is  like  a  cloud  between  me  and  the  sun." 

"  Leave  it  to  the  sun  to  dissipate,  Dolly.  Look  out,  and 
enjoy  yourself.  It  does  no  good  to  brood  over  a  thing  in  this 
fashion." 

"Probably  not,"  said  the  girl,  somewhat  drearily.  She 
was  half  disappointed  in  her  aunt's  careless  answers.  The  pre- 
sentiment weighed  too  heavily  for  her  not  to  desire  a  firm 
support,  in  recognition  of  a  possible  failure,  and  helpful  words  to 
reinforce  her  already  unnerved  strength.  But  Mrs.  Trescott 
did  not  understand  the  inner  workings  of  this  girl's  mind,  which 
she  thought  she  knew  through  and  through.  She  saw  Beth's 
rare  tears  were  near  the  surface,  however,  and  poured  out  a 
glass  of  sherry,  saying  : 

"  Here,  you  will  find  this  much  more  palatable  than  swal- 
lowing unshed  tears ;  and  as  to  crying Why,  if  you  cry 

to-day,  it  would  be  a  dreadful  reproach  to  me,  for  I  should 
know  you  were  just  worn  out,  and  that  I  ought  not  to  have 
done  as  you  teased  me  to, — which  I  always  do,  you  little 
witch  !" 

The  stimulant  did  Beth  good,  and  the  confessing  of  her 
trouble  also.  It  looked  sillier  now  that  it  had  been  spoken, 
and  her  aunt  left  her  no  time  to  brood,  but  began  to  talk  of 
other  things. 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  knew  what  I  am  going  to  give  you 
to-day?"  she  asked  presently.  "You  couldn't  have  lovelier 
associations  than  these.  Just  look  there  !" 

The  train  was  moving  with  exceeding  care  across  a  great 
chasm,  bridged  by  a  natural  arch,  hundreds  of  feet  above  the 
sea.  As  Beth  leaned  out  she  could  see  nothing  except  the 
perpendicular  cliffs  and  the  leaping,  restless  waves  far  below. 

It  was  a  dizzy  sight  and  fascinating,  as  such  sights  often 
are.  The  girl  was  tired  and  excited.  She  felt  an  intense 


4  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

desire  to  foil  through  the  air,  and  touch  the  water  beneath. 
The  longing  took  her  breath  quite  away.  She  gave  a  little 
gasp,  and  her  head  sank  on  the  window-sill.  Then,  through 
the  rush  in  her  ears  and  the  sound  of  the  quickening  train, 
she  heard  her  aunt's  voice,  as  from  a  distance,  in  alarmed 
accents. 

"  Beth  !  Beth  !  be  careful !     What  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  she  contrived  to  say  after  a  moment.  "  Just 
let  me  be  quiet."  Then,  presently  :  "I  suppose  I  was  dizzy. 
But  it  was  a  strange  feeling." 

"  Change  seats  with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Trescott  emphatically. 
"  You  must  not  look  out  of  the  window.  Here  is  your  present 
instead." 

"  A  ring  ?    Oh,  it  is  beautiful.     I  never  saw  one  like  it." 

"  There  isn't  such  another  in  all  the  world  ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Trescott.  "We  tired  ourselves  to  death  hunting  for 
something,  and  this,  at  last,  just  pleased  me.  Monsieur 
d'Isten  discovered  it  at  a  queer  place  way  down  in  the  city,  he 
said.  He  brought  it  for  me  to  see,  and  I  took  it  without  more 
ado.  I  think  it  is  just  perfect." 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Beth,  in  a  tone  of  thorough  satisfaction. 
"  It  is  becoming,  too ;  but  look  inside."  There  were  a  number 
of  Arabic  characters  clearly  engraved.  "Can  you  read  it? 
Try." 

After  turning  it  around  several  times,  Beth  deciphered :  "Let 
not  grass  grow  on  the  path  of  love — or  friendship."  "  The 
same  word  means  both,  I  believe." 

"  Brava  !  You  hardly  need  such  an  admonition,  however. 
I  now Well,  my  way  is  best  after  all.  When  a  friend- 
ship once  commences  to  languish,  let  it  go.  No  amount  of 
galvanism  will  make  it  lifelike.  Still,  one  might  afford  to  pull 
up  a  weed  now  and  then  in  the  pathway,  I  daresay.  The  best 
way,  though,  is  to  travel  it  often  and  crush  the  seeds  down." 

"  We  won't  let  any  seeds  have  a  chance  to  sprout  in  our 
path,  will  we,  auntie  1"  said  Beth  fondly.  "  But  how  did  you 
know  what  it  was  1  Have  you  been  studying  Arabic  too  1" 

u  Oh,  my  dear  !  imagine  me  !  No.  M.  d'Isten  translated 
it  for  me.  He  was  born  in  Algeria,  you  know." 

"  I  didn't  know  it." 

"  Yes,  he  is  the  son  of  the  Marquis  de  F ,  lieutenant- 
general  of  the  forces  there. " 


CHAP,  i.]  A  REBUFF.  5 

"  Indeed  ?"  exclaimed  Beth,  in  pleased  surprise.  "Why,  the 
Marquis  was  the  one  who  sent  us  our  escort,  and  was  so  very 
kind  to  us,  although  we  missed  our  opportunity  of  seeing  him. 
He  is  a  man  of  whom  one  hears  nothing  but  praise.  Can  M. 
d'lsteu  be  his  son  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  very  much  astonished. 
That  is  the  precise  man  I  should  have  said  would  be  Rend 
d'Isten's  father." 

There  was  a  slight  hauteur  in  her  manner  which  Beth  did 
not  notice  at  the  moment. 

"  I  thought  you  had  quarrelled,"  she  said,  "  and  that  you 
did  not  like  him  so  well  as  at  first." 

"  I  don't.  He  has  disappointed  me."  A  shadow  crossed 
Mrs.  Trescott's  face  as  she  spoke ;  a  shadow  of  mingled  pride, 
offence,  and  repression.  She  was  exercising  unusual  self-control. 

"So  he  is  an  Algerene,"  said  Beth,  with  interest.  "And 
the  wife  of  the  Marquis,  was  she  a  native  or  French  ? " 

"  She  was  an  Orientale,  a  Christian  of  the  open  Bible,  as 
they  call  it.  Her  son  always  speaks  of  her  with  much 
reverence." 

"  And  of  his  father  too,  I'm  sure." 

"  He  is  proud  of  him,  but  I  fancy  the  Marquis  is  a  cold 
man." 

"Perhaps,  but  every  one  admires  him,"  exclaimed  Beth 
eagerly.  "He  has,  they  say,  the  keenest  sensitiveness  to 
honour.  A  true  Bayard." 

"  Hum  !"  was  the  sceptical  comment  of  Mrs.  Trescott. 

"His  son  is  not  like  him  in  that,  then?" 

"  I  thought  so — once,  but  that  passed,  as  all  such  ideas  do." 

She  spoke  bitterly,  but  Beth,  used  to  frank  confidence 
between  them,  asked : 

"What  happened1?  You  never  told  me  the  cause  of  the 
trouble." 

"  I  never  shall,  probably,"  was  the  unexpected  rebuff. 
"  He  failed  in  respect  to  me.  That  is  enough  for  my  niece  to 
know." 

Beth  sat  a  moment  dumb  with  surprise.  "  Then  you  do 
not  expect  to  meet  him  again,  I  suppose,"  she  said  presently, 
and  Mrs.  Trescott  answered,  with  assumed  carelessness  : 

"  Oh,  yes ;  we  may  meet.  I  don't  know  that  I  should  be 
angry  with  him  now ;  only,  we  are  not  friends." 


6  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"A  fine  bit  of  sarcasm,"  thought  the  girl,  but  she  exclaimed 
frankly : 

"  Well,  I  hope  we  won't  meet ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  retorted  Mrs.  Trescott  sharply. 

"  I  never  fancied  him  from  what  you  yourself  told  me  of 
him  when  you  liked  him  best,"  said  Beth,  with  some  spirit.  "  I 
tried  to  hold  myself  neutral  until  I  should  see  him  as  long  as 
he  was  your  friend ;  yet  when  I  heard  that  I  should  not  have 
to  know  him  it  was  a  relief." 

Mrs.  Trescott  looked  at  her  with  contradictory  meanings  in 
her  face. 

"  Yet  you  admire  his  father  so  much  ! "  she  said  at  last. 

"  They  are  very  different  apparently."  After  a  pause  the 
girl  added  in  a  firm  tone :  "  Didn't  you  say  M.  d'Isten  was 
married  ? " 

'Yes." 

'  Have  you  met  his  wife  1 " 

'  No ;  she  does  not  live  in  Paris." 

'  And  does  he  live  there  all  the  year  ? " 

'  As  far  as  I  know.  But  you  needn't  cross-question  me  any 
further.  It  is  a  disagreeable  subject.  You  haven't  thanked  me 
for  your  ring  yet." 

"  Ah,"  said  her  niece,  with  a  smile  like  a  sunbeam,  "  it  is 
what  I  most  desired." 

She  took  her  aunt's  hand,  and  kissed  her  wrist  above  the 
glove.  All  the  constraint  in  Mrs.  Trescott's  manner  vanished. 

"  That  is  pretty  thanks,  dear.  I  am  glad  you  have  the 
ring.  It  seemed  to  belong  to  you  from  the  first" 

It  was  a  heavy  hoop  of  yellow  gold,  with  a  leaf  lying  on 
it,  against  which  was  a  ruby  rose  with  a  diamond  in  its  heart. 

"I  wonder  who  it  was  made  for?"  mused  the  girl,  turning 
it  from  side  to  side  so  that  the  gems  should  catch  the  light. 
"  Perhaps  for  some  sultana  who  wore  it  in  the  harem,  where 
she  was  for  ever  queen.  Perhaps  for  some  Christian  maiden, 
whose  lover  gave  her  this  as  a  betrothal  ring ;  that  diamond 
might  be  the  virgin  who  was  enwrapped  in  the  folds  of  his 
heart.  Or  perhaps — the  gem  might  be  a  tear,  too — it  was  the 
symbol  of  a  love  which  should  last  through  the  circle  of  eternity, 
even  though  grief  lay  in  its  midst." 

She  looked  up  smiling,  a  little  gravely. 

"You  romantic  child!"  laughed   Mrs.  Trescott.      "That 


CHAP,  i.]  WHAT  IS  FATE?  7 

last  supposition  would  only  be  thought  of  by  one  as  foolish  as 
you.  But  dream  away  as  much  as  you  like,  so  long  as  you 
don't  dream  anything  sad.  I  can't  have  my  present  bring  you 
sorrow  even  in  fancy,  sweet." 

"  No  danger.     It  is  too  lovely  for  that." 

The  rest  of  the  journey  passed  in  comparative  silence.  Mrs. 
Trescott  was  reading  the  last  crowned  French  novel ;  Beth  was 
thinking, — rather  dreaming.  Her  mind  wandered  back  to  the 
broken  home  in  Massachusetts ;  to  the  sister  who  was  her  one 
youthful,  earnest  companion ;  to  the  aunt  and  uncle  with  whom 
this  sister  lived  ;  while  she  and  the  aunt  who  had  brought  her 
up  wandered  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  found  only  occasional 
oases  of  rest,  as  they  would  now  find  a  few  months'  quiet  in 
Florence. 

And  meanwhile  under  all  her  musings  lay  the  dull,  haunted 
feeling  which,  ghost-like,  vanished  when  she  tried  to  find  its 
substance,  and,  without  words,  made  her  understand  that  the 
future  was  in  its  power  ;  she  could  not  escape  it.  Her  mental 
horizon  reminded  her  of  the  desert  she  had  so  lately  traversed. 
Long  sable  dunes  sweeping  away,  with  no  boundary  but  the 
sky ;  waves  of  sand,  changing  under  the  wind,  to  break  only 
into  other  tawny  waves,  and,  while  changing,  ever  the  same. 

The  desert  had  made  a  great  impression  upon  her.  Its 
silence,  its  weird  immensity,  its  burning  suns  and  wondrous 
stars,  had  all  wrought  their  influence  upon  her.  She  had  come 
to  understand  why  the  Arabs  were  fatalists  there  ;  would  this 
shadowy  future  teach  her  to  be  one  1 

She  was  roused  from  her  reveries  by  the  sight  of  the  Flower 
City  beneath  them.  They  had  crossed  the  last  pass  of  the 
Apennines,  and  were  striking  down  into  the  valley.  As  Beth 
saw  the  town  which  she  dearly  loved,  where  many  happy  hours 
had  been  spent,  and  friends  would  soon  know  of  their  unexpected 
arrival,  she  regained  something  of  her  usual  spirits ;  and  her 
eyes  lost  all  their  sadness  as  the  well-known  buildings  came 
near,  the  Lily  Tower  and  the  grand  cathedral  conspicuous  above 
the  closely-packed  houses. 

"Isn't  it  the  loveliest  city  in  the  world?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  See  !  there  is  the  river,  and  our  house.  I  can  even  catch  the 
reflection  of  the  windows  !  It's  like  coming  home ;  it  is  our 
heart's  home,  isn't  it,  auntie  1" 

"  How  would  you  like  to  live  here  always  ?"  asked  Mrs. 


8  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

Trescott,  looking  up  at  the  girl,  as  she  stood  with  her  hands 
clasped  through  the  door -strap,  her  slender  figure  swaying 
pliantly.  "Margaret  could  come  over,  and  we  all  live  here 
together.  You  don't  care  for  America  much." 

"  But  I  do  care  for  persons  there.  Margaret  never  could 
leave  Aunt  Agatha;  and,  besides,  she  could  not  be  happy  here. 
They  think  we  lead  aimless  lives." 

"  I  am  sure,  with  your  music,  and  now  your  writing,  you 
do  more  than  they  do !  And  you  could  not  be  here  at  all,  but 
for  me.  However,  I  was  not  serious.  Of  course,  America  is 
the  place  to  live  in." 

"  But  we  have  this  winter,  at  least,  in  dear  Florence ! " 
exclaimed  Beth.  "  Aren't  you  glad  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  like  Italy.  I  hope  it  may  be  a  very  happy  year  to 
you,"  she  added  tenderly.  "We  have  much  to  be  thankful 
for ;  you  were  so  ill  a  year  ago,  and  now  you  are  almost  well 
again." 

"  Quite  well,  auntie,"  corrected  Beth.  "  You  know  we  are 
going  to  forget  I  am  not  a  Samson,  and  try  gaiety  fearlessly. 
But,  dear,"  and  her  voice  grew  sweet  and  grave,  "  most  of  all,  I 
want  to  make  you  happy.  You  have  been  so  good  to  me  !" 

Mabel  Trescott's  answer  was  a  warm  pressure  of  Beth's 
hand,  but  nothing  more  was  said,  for  the  train  now  puffed  slowly 
into  the  station. 

A  few  moments  later  they  were  rolling  over  the  clean  streets, 
Beth  recognising  each  landmark  with  affectionate  pride,  and 
admiring  anew  the  palaces  which  raise  themselves,  "  by  three 
long-drawn  breaths,"  higher  than  any  houses  in  Europe.  In 
one  of  these  was  the  suite  they  had  made  into  a  home.  The 
windows  looked  out  in  front  between  stately  houses,  on  to  the 
Arno,  and  olive-clothed  hills  beyond,  now  crimsoned  by  the  set- 
ting sun.  On  the  other  side  the  apartment  opened  into  a  half- 
wild  garden,  where  the  ilex  alleys  and  measured  parterres  were 
overgrown  with  ivy  and  clambering  roses. 

As  the  delighted  servants  rushed  out  through  the  medieval 
gateway  to  kiss  the  hands  of  their  care  signore,  Beth  felt  a  glow 
of  pleasure  which  warmed  her  heart.  She  ran  lightly  up  the 
marble  staircase,  and,  greeting  the  padrone  with  a  glad  nod,  went 
on  ahead  of  him  into  the  sala. 

How  familiar  everything  was  !  There  was  the  same  tri- 
angular fireplace  in  the  corner,  where  wood  was  already  burning; 


CHAP,  i.]  A  KESOLVE.  9 

the  same  confusion  of  tables  and  sofas,  etagcres,  and  easels ; 
the  same  shadowy  Eembrandts  and  glowing  Titians ;  and  the 
painted  Aurora  still  floated  among  her  substantial  clouds  on  the 
high  ceiling.  Also — yes,  surely — there  was  her  favourite  frag- 
rance of  tea-roses  permeating  the  air. 

"  Who  could  have  sent  these  ?"  she  exclaimed,  bending  over 
a  bowlful  of  the  creamy  beauties.  The  beaming  padrone  bowed 
profoundly  in  the  doorway  as  he  answered  : 

"  We  Tuscans  have  good  memories,  signorina  mia." 

"You  don't  mean  you  remembered  my  birthday?"  she.  cried, 
her  dark  eyes  shining.  She  gave  the  old  man  her  hand;  "  Mille 
grazie,  signore." 

"  Ah,  signora,"  he  said,  lifting  her  fingers  to  his  lips,  "  no 
one  could  forget  your  sweet  patience  last  year.  It  does  an  old 
man's  heart  good  to  see  you  well,  and  that  you  care  for  us  still, 
although  you  have  been  far  over  the  waters." 

"  There  is  nothing  like  it  there,"  she  answered,  with  a  little 
decisive  gesture.  And  then  Mrs.  Trescott  coming  in,  and  busi- 
ness usurping  attentions,  Beth  slipped  off  alone  into  her  rose 
boudoir. 

Here,  too,  all  was  familiar,  and  doubly  dear.  By  the  fire 
was  the  chaise  longue,  on  which  she  had  passed  days  and  weeks 
during  the  languor  of  convalescence.  A  buhl  cabinet  stood 
opposite  the  window,  and  above  it  hung  an  inspired  sibyl,  in 
the  full  light  of  the  great  window,  whose  curtains  made  all  one 
end  of  the  room  a  mass  of  snowy  draperies. 

Leaning  against  the  casement,  and  looking  out  into  the 
twilight  garden,  Beth  said  earnestly  : 

"  I  have  conquered  much  in  this  room  ;  I  will  trust  I  shall 
more." 

Not  suffered,  or  endured,  but  conquered,  was  her  thought. 

A  few  hours  later  Mrs.  Trescott  had  retired,  and  the  moon 
had  risen,  and  was  sending  a  silver  flood  through  one  of  the 
great  arched  windows  into  the  sola.  Presently  Beth  lifted  the 
curtain  of  the  little  study,  and  came  out  into  the  dim  room. 
She  wanted  space  around  her.  She  needed  to  breathe  freely 
before  she  could  rest. 

The  light  from  the  half-shaded  door  made  but  a  faint  im- 
pression on  the  shadowy  vastness  of  the  apartment,  but  the 
effect  of  the  moonlight  on  the  indistinct  masses  of  furniture 
and  glimmering  marbles  pleased  Beth's  mood.  She  was  ini- 


10  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

pressionable,  and  the  memory  of  this  being  the  house  where 
Dante's  Beatrice  used  to  live  came  back  to  her  now  with  a 
thrill  of  delight. 

She  went  and  seated  herself  on  the  wide  window-ledge  in 
the  full  shower  of  moonbeams.  With  the  pure  outline  of  her 
uplifted  face,  and  her  sweeping  white  draperies,  she  might  have 
been  taken  for  the  mystic  maiden  of  whom  she  thought.  The 
ring  still  glowed  on  her  hand  like  a  drop  of  blood,  but  she  had 
forgotten  it. 

"  What  a  glorious  destiny  it  was  to  lead  such  a  man  through 
heaven  ! "  she  was  saying  to  herself.  "  The  highest  a  woman 
could  have.  No,  there  was  Mary,  she  was  blessed  among  women, 
and  yet,  how  she  suffered  !  But  who  would  not  bear  the  agony 
for  the  joy  of  giving  food  to  hungry  humanity  ?  Nothing  is  too 
hard  to  undergo,  if  we  let  it  only  make  us  nobler." 

She  spoke  bravely,  half  aloud.  It  was  an  answer  to  the  fear 
that  had  been  haunting  her.  She  met  it  now  fairly.  It  might 
do  its  worst ;  good  would  ensue. 

Thus  exorcised,  the  spirit  left  her,  and  her  thoughts  wandered 
to  other  things.  The  year  had  been  a  happy  one,  yet  in  many 
ways  serious.  A  man  had  loved  her,  and  she  had  liked  him. 
She  had  tried  to  do  more.  Her  aunt  pleaded  his  cause :  his 
mother  also.  But  it  is  a  trying  situation  for  any  man  to  attempt 
to  be  the  ideal  of  an  intelligent  girl  during  the  years  when  her 
ideas  are  constantly  changing.  Idealising  men  is  the  next  step 
to  idealising  dolls.  An  enthusiastic  girl  can  make  an  idol  out 
of  a  stick,  but  she  won't  worship  it  unless  she  believes  in  it. 
This  Beth  had  not  been  able  to  do.  Her  aunt's  influence  was 
all  towards  making  a  marriage  on  the  basis  of  esteem  and  liking. 
Mrs.  Randleth's  (an  Englishwoman)  had,  of  course,  been  the 
same.  Beth  did  like  Clarence,  but  she  never  felt  the  indescrib- 
able repulsion  from  him  so  much  as  when  she  admired  him 
most,  and  saw  the  most  reason  in  her  friends'  urgings. 

It  wore  upon  her,  delicate  as  she  was  from  her  long  illness, 
and  she  accepted  an  invitation  from  Aunt  Agatha,  and  went 
home  suddenly,  on  a  few  months'  visit,  leaving  Mrs.  Trescott  for 
a  summer  trip  with  friends. 

It  had  all  become  clear  to  her  there ;  how,  she  could  not 
exactly  say.  Perhaps  it  was  being  in  the  truly  conjugal  atmos- 
phere that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stanhope  gave  to  their  home.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  awakening  of  her  national  independence  within  her. 


CHAP,  i.]  THE  PROBLEM  OF  CHARACTER.  11 

Whatever  was  the  cause,  Clarence  was  quietly  made  to  under- 
stand that  there  was  no  hope  of  her  yielding,  and  she  returned 
to  Europe  fancy  free. 

But  the  new  key  which  she  had  struck  in  touching  American 
ideas  and  customs,  after  her  long  residence  abroad, — if  flitting 
can  be  so  called, — and  which  had  seemed  harsh  at  the  time, 
echoed,  unconsciously  to  herself,  through  old  associations  now 
renewed.  She  found  a  difference  in  opinion  between  herself  and 
her  aunt  which  she  had  never  noticed  before.  She  discovered 
that  the  unprogressive  actions  and  notions  of  the  conservative 
old  world  were  less  sympathetic  to  her  than  they  had  been. 
Perhaps  this  grew  more  rapidly  from  the  force  of  contrast,  .dur- 
ing her  travels  in  Spain,  where  traditionary  ideas  are  most 
blindly  held,  and  Algeria,  where  ideas  of  any  kind  seem  a  thing 
of  the  forgotten  past.  Moreover,  being  separated  from  one  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  unquestioning  obedience  from  her,  and 
who  never  hesitated  with  advice  or  commands,  gave  her  an 
opportunity  of  developing  independence  which  she  needed. 

Her  sister  Margaret,  with  her  radical  adhesion  to  her  own 
principles  and  opinions,  helped  her  too.  She  wished  now  she 
could  be  more  with  her  sister.  It  was  an  influence  which, 
though  silent,  was  thousand -tongued.  There  was  no  one  to 
rival  her  in  Beth's  heart.  To  her  aunt  she  was  devotedly 
attached,  but  her  sister  was  closer,  indeed  thoroughly  at  one 

with  her.  As  for  lovers Well,  Beth  had  often  asserted,  as 

many  girls  of  high  ideals  do  in  this  age,  her  conviction  that  she 
would  never  marry.  Yet  she  was  always,  half  consciously,  ex- 
pecting the  demi-god  who  would  rout  her  conviction,  and  prove 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  what  she  said. 

Meantime  her  heart  slept,  as  did  nature  around  her  under 
the  starry,  purple  sky.  Presently  the  dawn  would  come ;  and 
what  would  the  light  awaken  that  now  was  wrapped  in  dewy 
silence  1  It  was  winter  now ;  the  plant  was  there,  but  no  bud; 
what  fruit,  then,  would  ripen  in  the  summer  sunlight  ? 


12  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  She  sittetli  in  a  silence  of  her  own  ; 

Behind  her,  on  the  ground,  a  red  rose  lies  ; 

Her  thinking  brow  is  bent,  nor  doth  arise 

Her  gaze  from  that  shut  book  whose  word  unknown 
Her  firm  hands  hide  from  her."  R  w  C 

IT  was  a  glorious  day  in  early  February.  Already  spring  was 
making  itself  felt  in  the  subtle  excitant  of  the  air,  and  showing 
itself  in  the  crocuses  and  wild  hyacinths.  The  trees  were  per- 
force letting  fall  the  yellow  leaves  of  last  year,  because  of  the 
swelling  buds  that  came  to  replace  them.  There  is  no  use 
exercising  tenacity  when  the  inner  growth  says — Past. 

In  the  old  garden  behind  celestial  Beatrice's  earthly  home 
the  grass  was  fresh  and  short,  the  roses  were  beginning  to  bud, 
the  air  was  fragrant,  and  birds  were  wooing  one  another  among 
the  branches.  Bethesda  Hamilton,  of  course,  was  there  in  the 
heart  of  it  all.  She  was  devoted  to  the  picturesque  spot,  with 
its  cacti-topped  walls,  opening  to  let  one  see  the  river  and  hills 
and  far-reaching  valley.  Often  she  would  lie  for  hours  on  the 
sod  looking  and  dreaming. 

For  the  time  it  satisfied  her.  She  could  look  at  those  far- 
away hills,  and  the  time -toned  towers,  and  the  shimmering 
olive  groves,  until  she  seemed  to  feel  what  they  felt,  coming 
curiously  near  to  nature.  She  could  listen  to  the  birds,  and 
the  children's  voices,  and  the  chimes  of  sacred  bells,  until  they 
made  a  rhythm  within  her,  to  which  every  pulse  beat  musically, 
and  each  ruddy  drop  flowed  in  tune. 

So  there  she  was  this  morning,  secluded  and  yet  open  to  sky 
and  air,  when  Mrs.  Trescott  spied  her  blue  gown  on  the  grass, 
and  came  out  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  Beth  was  immediately 
all  animation.  She  sprang  up  and  ran  to  meet  her  aunt. 

"  A  letter  for  me  1 "  she  cried.     "  From  Margaret  ? " 

"  From  somebody  you  may  yet  like  better,"  said  Mabel. 

"  As  if  that  could  be  !  Oh,  from  Clarence  !  "  Her  voice 
fell  with  such  a  tone  of  disappointment  that  Mrs.  Trescott 
laughed. 

"  He  would  be  flattered  !  " 

"  Is  this  all  ? "  asked  Beth. 


CHAP.  II.]  A  MYSTEKIOUS  DICTATOR.  13 

"  Yes ;  the  mail  was  evidently  absorbed  in  bringing  you 
that.  I  hope  it  is  worth  it." 

She  waited,  strolling  here  and  there,  as  if  she  expected 
Beth  to  read  it,  but  the  girl  was  not  in  the  mood. 

Presently  Mabel  disappeared  again  into  the  house,  and 
Beth  was  left  alone  to  her  disturbed  reverie.  It  was  indeed 
disturbed.  The  restlessness  and  sweet  pain  of  spring  had 
come  closer  to  her  now.  It  was  hardly  sweet,  it  was  so  keen. 
She  threw  herself  on  the  grass  again,  and  pressed  close  to  the 
earth  to  still  this  uneasiness — was  it  of  craving  or  regret  1 

After  a  little  she  took  out  the  letter  and  read  it.  It  was  a 
manly  note ;  only  a  few  earnest  words  from  one  who  felt  he  had 
a  right  to  assure  her  of  his  steadfast  devotion  since  he  claimed 
nothing  in  return;  except,  indeed,  the  encouragement  her  purity 
lent  to  every  one,  to  try  to  make  his  life  better  worth  living,  as 
the  memory  of  her  was  helping  him  to  do. 

It  touched  Beth  deeply.  She  would  have  given  much  had 
she  been  able  to  return  Clarence  Eandleth's  affection.  The 
delight  she  would  give,  the  rest  she  would  feel,  appealed  to  her 
strongly.  The  lack  of  stability  in  the  circumstances  around 
her  had  grievously  influenced  her  character.  There  was  not  a 
side  on  which  her  nature  did  not  reach  out  for  something  to 
which  she  could  vow  and  keep  fidelity ;  and  her  outstretched 
arms  found  nothing — her  hands  closed  only  on  empty  air. 

Meantime,  within  the  convex  mirror  which  was  turned  to 
the  world  on  every  side  there  grew  a  personality  as  surely,  if 
silently,  as  crystals  form  in  the  still  sea-caves.  And  this  per- 
sonality had  a  magnetism  which  no  one  understood,  least  of  all, 
perhaps,  herself.  She  hardly  knew  of  its  existence,  except 
when  something  rose  within  her  that  flung  aside  all  outward 
interference  and  asserted  itself  supreme,  as  had  been  the  case 
in  her  final  decision  about  this  lover. 

Instinct  was  strong  within  her  to  defend  the  inner  being ; 
it  was  an  imperious  instinct ;  she  never  could  definitely  belie  it. 
Those  who  passed  the  glassy  walls  of  her  courteous  reserve  and 
were  admitted  into  her  friendship  found  themselves  in  a  dim 
mystic  city,  where  they  hardly  knew  what  were  their  own 
shadows  and  what  the  natural  inhabitants.  Forms  of  light  and 
forms  of  darkness  were  there,  and  all  freely  to  be  known.  But 
in  the  centre  was  a  palace  surrounded  by  a  wide  stream,  which 
no  one  could  either  fathom  or  bridge.  Here  the  being,  who 


14  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

frightened  Beth  herself  at  times,  lived  in  solitude,  working 
silently,  feeling  passionately.  She  would  look  forth  at  those 
who  stood  on  the  other  side  and  dipped  impotent  feet  into  the 
deep  waves,  scrutinising  them,  expectant  of  the  one  who  was  to 
cross  in  triumph,  and  to  whom  she  would  gladly  relinquish  her 
sovereignty.  But  she  was  not  to  be  deceived ;  and  to  all  as 
yet,  plead  as  Beth  might,  she  turned  an  averted  face. 

"  Beth  !  Girlie  ! "  called  Mrs.  Trescott. 

Beth  looked  up  and  saw  her  aunt  in  the  window,  and 
behind  her  a  man's  eager  face.  It  was  too  eager  for  Beth  not 
to  be  pleased,  for  each  woman  loves  the  true  love  in  her  lover, 
even  if  unrecognised.  Yet  she  rose  reluctantly.  It  was  charm- 
ing out,  and  she  shrank  from  the  thought  of  sitting  under  this 
artist's  eyes,  which  had  subtly  changed  of  late,  and  held  a  light 
she  now  half  liked,  now  wholly  disliked,  to  meet.  But  it  was 
all  so  unsubstantial  that  she  could  find  no  adequate  reason  for 
refusing  to  do  what  he  pleaded  for  persistently,  and  which  she 
knew  he  had  now  again  come  to  press. 

So  she  lingered  in  answering  her  aunt's  summons,  and  broke 
off  a  spray  of  the  new  leaves  and  passed  it  over  her  hand  again 
and  again,  hesitating  to  enter.  Thus  hesitating  Signer  Straora 
found  her. 

He  was  a  fine-looking  man,  with  a  strong  face  and  deferen- 
tial manners.  He  approached  Beth  now,  bowing  profoundly. 

"Ah,  signore,  you  thought  I  was  very  dilatory?  To  tell 
the  truth,  I  was  afraid  to  go  in." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  Why  does  that  please  you  ? "  she  asked  in  surprise.  "  Do 
you  like  to  be  feared  1 " 

"  To-day  it  promises  me  much." 

"  What  does  it  promise  you  1 "  Her  eyes  fell  after  a  glance 
at  his  face.  She  began  to  guess. 

"  It  promises  me  that  you  have  forgiven  whatever  my  offence 
may  have  been,"  he  said  eagerly,  drawing  a  step  nearer.  "  It  pro- 
mises me  that  you  will  not  be  obdurate ;  that  I  shall  see  you  in 
my  studio ;  that  your  kindness  will  intercede  for  me ;  that " 

"  Perhaps,  signore,"  said  Beth  demurely ;  "  perhaps  it  pro- 
mises too  much.  Let  us  go  in." 

The  sala  looked  unusually  attractive  in  its  shadowy  grace, 
coming  from  the  noonday  light,  which  had  grown  almost  too 
intense.  Mrs.  Trescott  was  sewing  in  a  recess,  willing  to  leave 


CHAP.  II.]  INSTABILITY.  15 

Beth  and  Signer  Straora  undisturbed.  She  was  the  most 
lenient  of  chaperones ;  indeed,  she  tried  to  escape  being  one  at 
all,  she  so  detested  the  rdle. 

But  Beth  intended  to  have  all  the  protection  she  could. 
She  seated  herself  close  beside  her  aunt,  and  motioned  Signor 
Straora  to  a  chair  not  very  near.  She  was  determined  to  be 
unapproachable.  Promises,  indeed  !  they  were  all  the  other  way. 

"Was  it  hot  out1?"  said  Mrs.  Trescott  carelessly,  looking 
tropical  enough  with  her  warm  colouring  and  dark  curls  against 
the  bright  window.  She  was  a  fair-skinned  brunette,  with  eyes 
which  sometimes  go  with  this  anomalous  type,  never  seeming 
to  be  of  the  same  colour  twice,  but  varying  from  the  luminous 
darkness  of  emotion  to  the  light  gray  of  indifference,  or  the 
sunny  laughter  of  teasing  moods ;  at  all  times  a  surprise. 
Signor  Straora  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  finer  contrast  than 
between  her  and  her  niece. 

"  Too  warm  in  February,  aim  tie  1  It  could  not  be  for  me 
even  in  summer,  but " 

"  There  was  too  much  nature  around  to  entertain  Monsieur 
1'artist,  eh  1 "  said  Mabel  in  a  teasing  tone. 

Beth  rose  a  trifle  abruptly.  Her  aunt  ought  to  support  her, 
she  thought ;  two  against  one  was  unfair. 

"  If  I  am  a  true  artist  nothing  could  please  me  so  well  as 
nature,"  Signor  Straora  said  meanwhile,  addressing  himself 
entirely  to  Mabel.  "  A  bit  of  garden  like  that  in  which  I  found 
the  signorina  would  do  for  one  of  Raphael's  backgrounds."  He 
shaded  his  eyes  and  looked  out  into  the  brilliant  atmosphere. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Beth,  approaching  him,  now  that  he  was 
impersonally  occupied,  "  what  do  you  think  of  this  engraving  of 
Santa  Anna  from  da  Vinci  1 " 

"  It  is  an  excellent  engraving,"  replied  the  artist  critically. 

"You  speak  as  if  you  did  not  like  the  subject." 

"  Nor  do  I.  Can  an  artist  expect  to  take  a  face,  which  is 
only  clay  modelled  by  character,  and  use  the  form  without 
giving  the  soul's  expression  1  In  all  Leonardo's  paintings  I  see 
the  woman  who  broke  his  heart  and  ruined  his  honour." 

He  laid  the  engraving  aside  with  a  slight  gesture  of  dislike. 
Beth  bent  over  it  with  new  interest. 

"Nay,"  she  said  eagerly,  "I  thought  you  artists  held  that 
forms  are  supreme  ;  that  character  cannot  make  a  plain  face 
beautiful,  or  a  beautiful  one  ugly." 


16  BETHESDA.  [PART  L 

"Signora,"  said  Straora,  smiling,  "you  are  giving  artists 
credit  for  less  discrimination  than  most  men,  and  it  is  our  boast 
that  we  have '  more.  Give  me  a  pure-hearted  woman  with  no 
deformity  but  plainness,  as  you  say,  and  I  could  produce  you  a 
Virgin  that  would  not  shock  you.  There  would  be  nothing  in 
her  face  which  would  be  inharmonious  with  pure  beauty.  But 
a  woman  such  as  Monna  Lisa — it  is  blasphemy." 

Beth  was  smiling  up  at  him  with  shining  eyes.  This  met 
her  ideal  expectation ;  it  was  what  she  wished  might  be. 

"  Ah,  signorina ! "  exclaimed  the  artist,  suddenly  fervent ; 
"  come  but  back  to  my  studio,  sit  to  me  but  twice  more,  and 
see  what  I  will  do  ! " 

Before  Beth  could  reply  came  a  quick  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Guinevere  Conover,  an  English  prima  donna  who  was  making  a 
fine  success  in  Florence,  entered.  She  was  a  tall  fair  girl  with 
golden  hair  of  no  artificial  tint,  but  her  eyebrows  and  lashes 
were  dark,  making  the  blue  eyes  an  unexpected  sight,  and  one 
which  never  fails  to  indicate  a  nature  at  combat  with  itself.  She 
had  become  an  ardent  friend  of  Beth's  during  the  winter,  and  had  a 
cluster  of  tea-roses  now  in  her  hand  as  a  tribute  to  her  little  queen. 

"  How  could  you  come  to  see  me  when  you  are  going  to 
sing  in  the  new  opera  to-night?"  exclaimed  Beth,  with  fond 
rebuke,  as  soon  as  the  introductions  were  over. 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it  at  home,"  answered  Miss  Conover  in 
an  undertone,  going  towards  the  study  to  lay  aside  her  wraps. 
"  I  must  not  do  anything  to-day,  and  idleness  just  kills  me.  It 
gives  me  nerves,  and  fears,  and  all  sorts  of  silly  things,  and  I 
knew  you  would  exorcise  them.  Ah,  love  ! "  she  exclaimed 
abruptly,  as  the  curtain  fell  behind  them,  "you  are  all  my 
peace  and  my  rest  now.  It's  marvellous  the  effect  you  have  on 
me.  I  feel  it  as  soon  as  I  come  near.  To-day  I  stood  outside 
your  door  there,  before  I  knocked,  and  just  tried  to  feel  you,  as 
it  were ;  but  it  was  nothing  to  having  you  right  here." 

"  You  shall  stay  with  me,  then,  as  long  as  you  like ;  all  day  if 
you  choose,"  said  Beth  promptly.  She  knew  the  passionate  woman 
had  been  thrown  by  an  early  disappointment  on  to  the  stage  for 
work,  and  that  now  her  whole  devotion  was  given  to  her  art 
except  what — could  it  be1? — was  reserved  for  Bethesda.  "If 
I  can  quiet  you,  you  shall  have  me,"  she  added  tenderly. 

.  "  That  is  like  you,  sweet.  Let  me  put  this  rose  in  your  hair. 
It  is  too  lovely  for  any  other  place.  I  remember  when  I  first  saw 


CHAP,  ii.]  A  SONG.  17 

you,  dressed  in  sheer  white,  I  thought  you  were  like  a  tropical 
moonlight,  so  fair  and  clear,  and  yet  with  an  undertone  of  passion 
in  you  which  suggested  exotic  flowers,  and  palm  trees,  and " 

"And  deserts!"  interrupted  Beth,  turning  away  some- 
what impatiently.  "  Forgive  me,  but  I  can't  bear  to  be  talked 
about.  I  just  hate  myself  to-day." 

"Why,  what  can  be  the  matter,  carissima?"  With  quick 
instinct  she  added  presently  :  "  Is  it  the  painter  1" 

"Precisely!"  exclaimed  Beth.  "I  have  been  so  stared  at 
and  studied  by  him  that  even  when  he  says  nothing  I  am 
conscious  of  myself  and  my  poses.  It's  miserable  !  I  feel 
like  hiding  myself  in  a  cavern.  Instead,"  she  added,  with  an 
effort  after  her  usual  manner,  "  come  in  and  talk  to  him.  He 
is  entertaining  and  appreciative ;  you  will  like  one  another." 

Signer  Straora  rose  to  meet  them  and  to  take  his  leave  at 
the  same  time ;  but  a  word  from  Beth  persuaded  him  to  stay, 
and  the  conversation  was  immediately  easy  and  fluent.  Beth 
delighted  in  listening  to  the  witty  sallies  and  vivacious  replies 
which  passed  between  Signor  Straora  and  Miss  Conover,  but 
after  a  little  the  latter  grew  restless.  This  was  not  what  she 
needed ;  Beth's  presence  did  not  exercise  its  charm  with  other 
persons  intervening. 

She  rose,  and,  going  to  the  piano,  began  turning  over  some 
music.  When  she  could  not  have  one,  her  instinct  led  her 
directly  to  the  other. 

"Sing  us  one  little  song,  won't  you,  Evra1?"  urged  Mrs. 
Trescott. 

"Oh,  she  ought  not,"  interposed  Beth.  But  to  such  a 
nature  as  Guinevere's  danger  lends  piquancy.  Besides,  as  she 
said,  one  song  could  not  tire  her. 

She  had  soon  chosen  a  simple  minor  air,  with  pathetic 
intervals  and  an  appealing  melody.  It  expressed  the  sorrow  of 
a  man  who  had  laid  his  beloved  in  the  grave,  and  had  planted 
flowers  at  her  head  and  feet — one  dark  and  sombre,  to  tell  his 
grief;  and  one  white  and  candid,  to  recall  her  purity. 

Music  is  said  to  be  the  voicing  of  the  emotions,  and  surely 
it  was  so  here.  The  rare  voice  touched  its  hearers,  and  made 
their  innermost  wishes  speak.  Mrs.  Trescott  was  restless 
under  a  rankling  memory;  Beth  thought  how  far  better  it 
would  be  to  love,  and  lose,  if  need  were ;  and  for  a  moment 
Straora's  eyes  rested  on  Beth's  drooping  head,  with  the  rose  in 

C 


18  BETHESDA.  [HART  i. 

the  warm  coils,  as  a  man  might  look  at  one  who  had  the  power 
to  save  him  from  sorrow  bitterer  than  death. 

When  the  chaste  devotion  of  the  last  tones  was  hushed  into 
silence,  and  a  few  words  of  appreciation  had  been  spoken  by 
the  stranger,  in  a  voice  which  quite  satisfied  the  artiste,  she  said  : 

"  I  will  give  you  a  treasure  in  return  for  your  kind  words, 
signore.  Beth,  you  will  play  us  my  sonata  1 " 

"Certainly,"  said  Beth.  Here  she  was  at  home,  and  no 
false  pride  or  obtrusive  self-consciousness  hampered  her.  She 
knew  she  could  play,  and  she  was  pleased  to  give  pleasure.  So 
she  took  up  her  violin,  and  pressed  it  against  her  breast  a 
moment ;  but,  once  vibrating,  she  forgot  all  else. 

The  slumbering  passion  and  pathos  which  underlay  her 
nature  flowed  out  in  this  beloved  art,  to  which  she  had  given 
years  of  study.  She  was  really  great  at  times,  beautiful  to 
look  at,  thrilling  to  listen  to,  infinite  to  suggest.  No  other 
person  seemed  to  ensoul  a  sonata  as  did  Bethesda.  Every  strain 
became  a  thought,  and  carried  itself  into  one's  brain.  Each  note 
seemed  a  magnet,  to  attract,  and  to  hold.  Finally,  one  felt  one's 
self  the  instrument,  and  one's  heartstrings  were  what  she  was 
touching,  and  each  touch  was  an  ecstasy  and  a  pain ;  and  one 
would  not  have  foregone  this  pain  for  the  most  brilliant  joy. 

When  she  finished  and  sank  back,  half-benumbed,  as  always 
by  playing,  Evra  came  and  took  the  violin  away, .  with  cold 
hands  and  burning  eyes. 

"  You  outdid  yourself ;  is  Mozart  actually  in  you  ?  I  believe 
sometimes  you  are  yourself  a  spirit,  child." 

"  She  is  all  spirit,"  said  Signer  Straora,  standing  near,  and 
just  touching  her  chair  as  if  to  detain  her.  What  weird  power 
was  this  that  Beth  exercised?  Every  one  felt  it,  and  these 
artist  natures  more  than  all. 

She  smiled  up  at  them  both. 

"I  won't  vanish,"  she  said.  "You  make  me  feel  quite 
eerie,  you  two,  so  serious,  and  yet  so  absurd.  Come,  I'll  break 
the  spell." 

She  sprang  up  and  gave  herself  a  little  shake.  As  she  did  so 
the  flower  fell  from  her  hair.  Signor  Straora  instantly  picked  it  up. 

"There  lies  my  power  !"  exclaimed  Beth,  "in  Evra's  gift. 
Sha'n't  we  give  it  to  him,  to  use  as  an  amulet  against  the  witch, 
mademoiselle  ? " 

"Not  against  her,"  he  said,  with   peculiar  emphasis,  as 


CHAP.  IL]  AN  ARTIST'S  CEAVING.  19 

Evra  nodded  assent.  She  left  them  and  went  over  to  say  good- 
bye to  Mrs.  Trescott. 

Signor  Straora  seized  his  opportunity,  and  used  it  with  good 
effect.  He  saw  Miss  Hamilton  was  softened  by  the  music,  and 
touched  by  their  appreciation.  He  urged  her  to  confer  the 
greatest  pleasure  she  could  upon  him,  since  his  whole  soul  was  in 
his  art,  and  she,  now,  was  necessary  to  it.  He  avoided  with  fine 
care  too  much  personal  warmth,  and  yet  let  his  enthusiasm  on  art 
speak  as  it  would.  She  wavered,  and  finally  turned  to  her  aunt. 

Mrs.  Trescott  was  quick  in  discerning  the  undercurrents  of 
society  where  no  personal  bias  blinded  her,  and  was  fond  of 
saying  that  she  had  yet  to  see  the  man  who  could  conceal  his 
love  for  any  woman  when  she  had  once  seen  the  two  together. 
She  generally  prevented  any  possible  mistake  by  taking  it  for 
granted  that  any  given  man  loved  any  given  woman  whom  he 
had  met,  until  the  contrary  was  proved ;  and  the  contrary  of 
love  is  not  hate,  but  indifference. 

She  shrewdly  suspected,  therefore,  that  Signor  Straora  was 
"in  love"  with  her  niece,  but  she  did  not  look  upon  this  as 
any  reason  why  she  should  refuse  a  favour  that  would  bring  a 
rich  reward.  She  never  threw  away  anything  she  desired 
because  of  a  doubt  about  using  the  means  she  had  in  her  hand ; 
that  is,  she  was  always  sure  she  had  a  right  to  use  them. 

So  now  she  said  :  "  Of  course  Beth  will  go.  It  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  urge  it,  yet  I  think  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  you  also, 
and  Beth  is  glad  to  do  a  kindness.  When  shall  we  come,  signore? 
and  when  can  we  hope  to  see  the  portrait  ?  Do  you  know," 
turning  to  Miss  Conover,  "  we  never  have  had  a  glimpse  of  it  yet. 
The  whims  of  artists,  however,  are  to  be  considered,  I  suppose." 

Meantime  Signor  Straora  was  looking  at  Beth,  still  un- 
satisfied. He  wished  to  have  her  free  consent;  he  wished  it  to 
come  from  her.  She  understood,  and  smiled  brightly. 

"  Yes,  I  will  come,  since  auntie  consents.  I  don't  doubt  it 
will  be  enjoyable ;  and  then  it  is  a  pleasure,  isn't  it,  signore, 
to  give  pleasure  1  I  am  quite  selfish  in  it,  you  see." 

It  can  hardly  be  expressed  what  this  favour  was  to  the 
artist.  He  felt  it  a  question  concerning  not  alone  his  art,  not 
even  principally  that,  but  his  most  elevated  happiness,  an 
inspiration  to  heart,  brain,  and  soul,  such  as  he  had  never 
experienced  before.  It  was  not  love  he  felt ;  rather  that  up- 
lifted devotion  which  rendered  Dante  and  Petrarch  great — that 


20  BETHESDA.  [PART  I. 

choosing  as  the  type  of  all  perfection  one  woman,  and  worship- 
ping none  but  her. 

Yet  Beth  was  only  a  pretty  American  girl  with  faults,  and 
vanities,  and  narrownesses  such  as  frail  humanity  will  have  ; 
such  as  Beatrice  herself,  the  divine  Beatrice,  no  doubt  also 
possessed ;  and  she  did  not  realise  at  all  what  had  come  to  her ; 
indeed,  would  have  considered  it  unheard-of  arrogance  to  dream 
of  it. 

She  had  become,  in  fact,  during  this  interview  somewhat 
ashamed  of  having  taken  for  granted  what  had  not  been  even 
hinted,  only  felt.  But  it  is  just  here  a  woman's  responsibility 
lies.  Bethesda  was  not  clear-sighted  in  regard  to  the  love  of 
men.  What  blinded  her  ?  She  often  asked  herself  this  after- 
wards, but  she  never  gained  a  satisfactory  reply.  Was  it 
vanity  1  Surely  for  it  to  be  hard  to  realise  persons  loved  her, 
was  not  to  be  vain.  She  saw  nothing  in  herself  worthy  of 
love,  so  did  not  expect  it.  Was  this  vanity  ?  Rather,  what 
else  could  it  be  ?  The  doubt  implied  that  the  bestowal  of  love 
proved  the  value  was  in  herself;  whereas  it  is  only  the  affluence 
of  love,  falling,  like  the  rain  upon  the  just  and  unjust,  which 
makes  any  one  the  recipient  of  devotion  from  another.  Love 
comes  to  us  rather  for  what  we  should  be  than  what  we  are. 
But  Beth  did  not  understand  this.  Only  loving,  and  feeling 
how  the  divine  source  of  love  makes  it  spring  beyond  all  persons 
to  its  fountainhead  could  teach  her. 

This  is  what  had  taught  Straora,  and,  trembling  on  the 
brink  of  his  delight,  he  felt  himself  incapable  of  remaining  in 
her  presence ;  he  dared  not  even  kiss  her  hand,  but  took  his  hat 
and  fled. 

He  returned  in  the  evening,  however,  to  accompany  them  to 
the  opera.  It  was  a  magnificent  success,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  convey  an  idea  of  an  Italian  audience  under  the  thrall  of  such 
an  artistic  creation  as  that  given  them  of  Pocohanta  by 
La  Cinoni.  For  the  time  being  they  live  in  the  lives  portrayed 
before  them,  feeling  the  surging  music  as  they  would  their  own 
passions,  and  calmed  at  its  command  as  at  that  of  a  god. 
Nothing  can  equal  the  intoxication  of  holding  such  an  audience 
in  one's  hand,  and  seeing  it  quiver  with  each  tone  and  gesture. 

Cinoni  had  the  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  came  forward 
between  the  tenor  and  composer,  and  was  greeted  with  a  real 
ovation.  She  tried  to  transfer  some  of  the  applause  to  her 


CHAP.  II.]  A  PERCEPTION.  21 

companions,  but  they  joined  in  it  to  the  delight  of  the  public. 
She  had  made  its  supreme  success  in  her  masterly  rendering  of 
passion  and  despair.  They  felt  that  nothing  could  express  their 
gratitude. 

As  Mrs.  Trescott  and  Miss  Hamilton  drove  home  escorted 
by  Signer  Straora,  Beth  leaned  back  in  her  corner,  an  indistinct 
white  figure  in  the  semi-darkness. 

Presently  she  said : 

"Did  you  ever  think  in  going  to  the  opera,  signore,  that 
there  must  be  many  persons  present  who  are  'going  through 
stirring  dramas  of  their  own  ? " 

"  I  never  did — until  to-night,"  he  replied,  bending  forward, 
eager  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  But  without  noticing  his 
movement  she  continued : 

"  I  wonder  if  each  life  is  not  set  to  music  as  much  as  an 
opera  1  Surely  we  can  make  it  what  we  will,  either  a  sublime 
symphony,  a  glorious  anthem,  or  a  requiem.  Sometimes  I 
think  that  if  we  only  listened  closely  enough  we  might  hear  the 
orchestral  accompaniment,  and  gain  strength  from  the  know- 
ledge that  discords  only  chord  at  last." 

There  was  a  solemnity  in  her  tone  which  prevented  a  ready 
reply,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  she  spoke  in  a  more  natural 
voice,  but  with  an  echo  of  passionate  sadness  : 

"  Poor  Pocohanta  !  in  losing  her  lover  she  lost  the  keynote 
of  her  existence,  and  all  she  could  do  was  to  end  the  distorted 
harmony.  Death  must  be  the  result  of  a  broken  heart.  But 
in  our  day  no  one  should  have  a  broken  heart.  Love  is  not 
all  in  the  world,  even  for  a  woman  ;  there  is  something  higher 
and  greater." 

"  There  is  nothing  so  sweet,"  murmured  the  artist,  thrown 
off  his  guard.  He  had  listened  to  her  as  to  an  oracle.  She 
seemed  miles  above  him ;  he  never  thought  of  touching  her,  but 
his  heart  spoke  almost  unconsciously  in  those  few  words.  She 
might  require  an  utter  sacrifice  from  him,  but  he  knew  its  worth. 

On  this  strained  intensity  of  feeling  Mrs.  Trescott  broke 
with  a  laugh. 

"  What  fol-de-rol  talking  of  dying  for  love  !  The  heart  is 
altogether  too  elastic  for  that,  isn't  it,  signore?  We  know 
better  than  this  little  romantic  maiden,  eh?" 

"I  doubt  if  we  know  so  well,"  replied  Signer  Straora 
gravely,  and  to  his  relief  they  arrived  at  home. 


22  BETHESDA.  [PART  *i. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  Ah,  tlie  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 
And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  ! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 
Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  !  " 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

THE  second  morning  after  the  representation  of  Pocohanta 
was  the  one  on  which  Beth  and  her  aunt  first  returned  to  Signor 
Straora's  studio.  The  bright  sunlight  and  the  fresh  air  had 
banished  all  Beth's  ghosts,  and  she  was  in  a  joyous  mood, 
dancing  around  her  aunt  with  a  frolicsomeness  that  caused  Mrs. 
Trescott  to  watch  her  a  little.  Could  the  child  be  really 
interested  in  the  painter  1 

"  You  don't  seem  particularly  unhappy  at  the  thought  of 
sitting  again,"  she  remarked. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  answered  Beth  frankly.  "  You  know  I 
dislike  refusing  requests  more  than  almost  anything  else ;  and 
then  you  are  pleased  now,  auntie.  That  makes  me  happy." 

Mrs.  Trescott  pushed  her  reassurance  a  question  further. 

"And  Signor  Straora?" 

"  Oh  yes;  I  like  to  please  him  too.  He  has  not  had  a  very 
pleasant  life,  they  say,  and  I  am  glad  to  tuck  any  small  repug- 
nance I  may  feel  into  my  pocket  for  the  sake  of  giving  him 
something  nice  to  think  about ;  and,"  with  a  gay  smile,  "  I'm 
nice,  auntie,  am  I  not  ?" 

"You  will  do,"  answered  Mabel,  in  a  well-pleased  voice. 
"  You  look  about  four  years  old  this  morning,  and  are  just  as 
much  of  a  sunbeam  as  you  were  then.  I  hope  you  will  stay 
my  little  girl  for  ever  so  many  years  yet,  though,  of  course,  you 
must  marry  some  time." 

"  I  would  begin  to  mourn  over  it  now,  if  I  were  in  your 
place,"  exclaimed  Beth.  "  It  is  the  wisest  plan  in  this  vale  of 
tears  to  prepare  for  sorrow  and  never  expect  joy.  Do  cry  a 
little  about  my  marrying;  right  off,  now;  won't  you  please, 
auntie  1  Indeed,  we  might  cry  together,  for  it  will  be  far  more 
lamentable  to  me.  Now,  let's  begin  together.  One " 

"You  foolish  child!"  laughed  Mabel     "What  nonsense 


CHAP,  in.]  AN  ITALIAN  STUDIO.  23 

you  can  talk  !  Eun  away  and  get  ready.  We  will  postpone 
our  tears  till  a  more  propitious  occasion." 

Notwithstanding  this  youthful  exuberance  of  spirits  Beth 
dressed  herself  very  demurely  in  a  gray  gown,  determined  to  be 
quite' dignified;  but  she  could  not  help  smiling  as  she  met  her 
own  dancing  eyes  in  the  mirror. 

"  I  am  not  very  ugly,"  she  thought,  "  and  I  am  quite  content 
to  be  pretty  to-day.  It  can't  harm  anybody." 

When  they  reached  the  studio  building,  with  its  sombre 
cypresses  opposite,  a  shadow  was  cast  for  a  moment  over  the 
sparkling  eyes  and  bright  face.  Had  she  any  right  to  return 
here,  where  she  might  be  putting  sorrow  into  another's  life,  and 
lift  through  the  radiant  sunshine  some  such  gloomy  monument 
as  one  of  these  1 

But  Signor  Straora  had  been  on  the  watch  for  them,  and 
now  came  running  down  to  welcome  his  guests.  There  was  a 
pleasure  in  his  bearing  (he  had  to  hold  a  strong  rein  on  himself 
not  to  show  too  much),  which,  however  illogically,  restored 
Beth's  gladness  of  spirit. 

When  the  door  into  the  studio  was  opened  Beth  could  not 
restrain  an  exclamation  of  delight.  Through  an  immense 
window,  from  which  the  gray  shades  were  drawn  aside,  the 
light  was  streaming  in  a  yellow  glory,  and  on  every  side  it  was 
reflected  by  armour  and  weapons,  which  were  arranged  in  groups 
on  the  tapestried  walls.  Finely -carved  guitars,  flutes,  and 
other  musical  instruments,  were  laid  in  artistic  confusion  on 
mosaic  and  ebony  tables  ;  old  cabinets  of  ivory  and  sandal- 
wood  stood  against  Japanese  screens,  which  formed  odd  corners, 
where  lacquer  ware  and  Venetian  glass  were  mingled  in  incon- 
gruous harmony.  The  most  striking  object  in  the  room  was  a 
screen  crossing  the  whole  length  of  the  apartment,  and  rising 
almost  to  the  frescoed  ceiling.  It  was  made  of  panels  of  deep 
red  damask,  framed  in  carved  ebony ;  and,  propped  or  hung  on 
the  protuberances  of  the  carving,  were  unfinished  sketches  and 
rough  outlines  of  heads  and  limbs ;  while  all  around  the  room, 
on  easels  and  chairs,  were  paintings — some  of  weird  scenery, 
and  some  of  elfish  figures,  that  peopled  the  room  with  witches. 

But  the  completing  touch,  and  the  one  that  pleased  Beth 
most,  was  the  bright  wood  fire.  It  had  never  been  there 
before. 

"  I  observed  that  you  had  a  fire  always  burning,"  explained 


24  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

their  host,  "  and  I  wished  to  make  it  as  comfortable  for  you  as 
I  could." 

There  could  hardly  have  been  a  greater  concession  made  by 
an  Italian,  for  they  prefer  to  shiver  over  a  "  scaldino  "  rather 
than  to  "  oppress  the  lungs,"  as  they  insist  a  fire  always  does. 
But  radical  changes  were  being  made  in  at  least  one  Italian  by 
this  American  girl.  Mrs.  Trescott  wondered  even  if  he  did 
not  intend  the  fire  as  a  symbol  of  the  warmth  which  had  been 
lighted  in  his  heart  by  Beth's  unconscious  hands. 

She  had  gone  immediately  to  the  hearth,  and  stood  there 
with  one  dainty  foot  on  the  fender,  delighted  by  the  scene,  and 
permeated  with  the  sense  of  pleasure  from  unobtrusive  admira- 
tion, as  well  as  from  the  blazing  logs. 

One  brand  fell  forward. 

B"0h,"  she  said  quickly,  "give  me  the  tongs.  Thanks. 
There ! "  dexterously  readjusting  the  sticks,  "  you  cannot  be 
expected  to  know  how  to  tend  to  a  fire.  It  takes  a  woman  to 
keep  it  from  doing  damage." 

He  was  watching  her  with  an  almost  painful  delight.  Think 
of  a  Beatrice  condescending  to  arrange  a  domestic  hearth  ! 

She  looked  up  at  him  smiling  and  a  little  flushed.  In- 
stantly down  fell  the  tongs  with  a  clatter,  and  she  moved  away 
to  her  seat.  How  about  the  vague  uneasiness,  which  was  the 
utmost  she  had  acknowledged  to  herself,  then  1 

"Please,  signorina,"  said  the  artist  from  the  easel  in  a 
business-like  tone  (he  had  realised  his  danger),  "  will  you  turn 
this  way  ?  It  is  essential  that  I  should  see  your  eyes  now." 

"  Must  I  look  at  you,  then,  all  the  time  ? "  asked  Beth,  a 
little  wickedly  in  spite  of  herself. 

A  quick  answer  flashed  in  Signor  Straora's  eyes,  but  he  did 
not  give  it  utterance. 

"  Look  anywhere  you  choose,"  he  said  quietly,  "  so  that  it 
is  towards  me." 

"  That  is  my  Sphinx-like  expression,  eh  ? "  she  said,  a  little 
impatient  at  her  position.  "  I  wonder  how  you  ever  fancied  I 
looked  like  the  Sphinx  anyway.  Do  you  know,  signore,  it  is 
rather  a  doubtful  compliment  1  As  I  remember  her,  she  had  no 
nose,  and  her  stony  complexion  looked  as  if  she  had  been  visited 
by  a  gigantic  smallpox." 

"  It  is  not  in  those  points  that  I  trace  the  resemblance." 

"  No  ?     Well,  that  is  comforting.     Didn't  the  Sphinx  have 


CHAP.   III.]  WHAT  IS  THE  SPHINX  ?  25 

the  privilege  of  asking  a  question  of  every  one  who  approached 
her?"  she  went  on  after  a  moment's  pause.  Someway,  she 
could  not  bear  silence  to-day,  with  his  hand  and  eyes  working 
so  swiftly.  She  felt  all  the  blemishes  there  were  in  her  face  ; 
she  must  take  her  mind  off  it — this  miserable  self-conscious- 
ness ! 

He  had  hesitated  before  answering  her.  Now  he  said 
gravely  :  "  Yes,  signorina." 

"  And  wasn't  there  some  dreadful  penalty  attached  if  he  did 
not  answer?" 

"  The  sacrifice  of  his  life,  signorina." 

This  was  becoming  altogether  too  serious. 

"  I  can't  play  at  any  such  game  as  that  if  you  do  call  me 
the  Sphinx,"  she  said  lightly.  "What  does  the  mysterious 
creature  mean,  after  all,  signore  1"  '  . 

11 1  cannot  say ;  I  can  at  most  only  paint  it."  He  stood 
back  from  the  easel,  surveying  the  work  and  the  model  critic- 
ally. "It  is  your  eyes  that  escape  me.  In  them  lies  the 
whole  secret  of  the  expression.  There  is  a  deep  question  in 

them ;  a  wealth  of  expression Ah,  signorina  !  don't  mock 

at  me  ! " 

Beth's  eyes  were  dancing  now,  and  she  broke  into  a  peal  of 
hearty  laughter  as  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Let  me  translate  the  question  for  you,  signore ;  it  is 
indeed  deep.  What  do  you  expect  to  answer  when  you  are 
accused  of  sending  me  to  perdition  by  flattery  1 " 

"I,  flatter?  Pardon,"  he  said,  persistently  grave.  "I 
think  you  cannot  recall  a  single  word  of  even  most  deserved 
appreciation.  It  is  too  common  for  you." 

Beth's  gaiety  was  silenced  by  his  tone.  She  played  with 
the  beads  in  her  lap,  a  trifle  embarrassed. 

"  Madama,"  said  the  artist  to  Mrs.  Trescott,  "  cannot  you 
suggest  something  which  will  keep  la  signorina  from  being  too 
much  ennuyee  ?  " 

"  Give  her  a  book,  and  let  her  read  aloud  to  us.  It  may 
entertain  you  as  well  as  her." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  but  I  have  few  books,"  he  said,  taking 
a  handful  from  a  table  near  by.  "  Here  is  a  work  on  art ;  you 
surely  will  not  care  for  that,  Mees  Hamiltone  1  Nor  this  on 
Egypt  ?  You  see  I  have  been  looking  up  Egyptian  history  to 
explain  you.  Nor  this 1 " 


26 .  BETHESDA.  [PAKT  t. 

"  Let  me  have  the  Egyptian  one,"  said  Beth,  with  interest. 
"  I  should  like  myself  to  find  out  what  is  the  explanation  giveu 
of  me." 

He  came  forward  to  hand  it  to  her,  but  stopped  suddenly. 

"  No,  please,  not  this,"  he  said  deprecatingly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I — I  greatly  prefer  not." 

"  Then  there  is  no  reason  for  it,  signore  ? "  she  said,  instinct- 
ively trying  her  power  over  him. 

"  No,  it  is  a  whim  of  mine,"  he  answered  hastily,  slipping 
the  volume  under  the  others.  "  This  will  suit  you  much 
better,"  and  he  offered  her  a  collection  of  poems. 

"  No,  I  don't  care  for  that ;  I  want  the  other.  It  is  a 
whim  of  mine,"  she  added,  mimicking  his  deep  tones  with  be- 
witching effect.  "  Please  give  me  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  the  rosy  palm  upwards.  It  was  a 
very  little  thing  that  she  asked.  Why  not  ?  Of  course  the 
book  was  hers. 

She  opened  it  eagerly  and  glanced  through  the  closely- 
printed  pages,  reading  bits  such  as  these  : — "  The  meaning  of 
the  Sphinx  is  the  great  enigma  of  life ;  the  earnest  seeking  after 
truth,  which  has  existed  in  all  times.  It  is  the  mystery  of  the 
unknown." 

"  And  I  look  so  wondrously  mysterious,  do  I  ? "  commented 
Beth,  although  the  query  in  her  eyes  deepened  in  spite  of  her 
light  words.  They  were  only  the  foam  on  the  surface  of  the 
sea. 

" '  Her  figure  was  placed  before  every  temple.'  You  have 
marked  that,"  she  said,  glancing  up.  He  was  busy,  and  did 
not  reply. 

" '  The  Sphinx  has  a  lion's  body,  with  two  wings,  and  a 
virgin's  head.'  Poor  virgin !  Now,  what  do  you  suppose  that 
means,  signore  1" 

"The  natural  and  the  ideal,  and  the  intelligence  which 
unites  them." 

"  Why,  there's  something  in  it,  isn't  there  ? "  she  exclaimed, 
her  intellect  aroused.  "  But  why  should  it  be  a  lion  ? " 

"  For  strength  and  courage.  Those  are  the  highest  natural 
attributes." 

"And  the  wings?  Oh  yes,  I  see.  But  is  a  virgin  the 
highest  in  humanity  ? " 


CHAP,  in.]  LANCES  IN  REST.  27 

"  Is  she  not  1 "  lie  murmured  very  low. 

Now  as  Beth  sat  there  was  an  old  copy  of  a  Virgin  over  her 
head,  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  say  which  Signor 
Straora  glanced  at  as  he  spoke  these  words.  Beth  remembered 
he  was  a  Catholic,  and  explained  his  words  quite  simply. 

"  Why  didn't  you  wish  me  to  see  this  1"  she  asked  presently, 
closing  the  book.  "  I  don't  see  what  troubled  you." 

"  I  thought  you  would  not  find  it  interesting,"  he  answered 
in  a  relieved  tone,  but  he  incautiously  showed  a  desire  to  re- 
gain it. 

"  No,  there  is  something  I  haven't  found ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Go  to  your  easel,  signore ;  you  cannot  have  it  yet." 

She  turned  over  a  few  pages  carelessly,  not  really  expecting 
to  find  anything,  when  her  eye  caught  sight  of  a  fine  annota- 
tion, and  heavy  marks  around  a  certain  passage. 

If  she  had  read  it  she  would  have  known  with  what  exceed- 
ing reverence  and  devotion  he  regarded  her ;  and  the  artist  had 
been  afraid  it  would  rob  him  of  his  sittings.  Moreover,  he 
could  not  have  her  see  it  when  she  was  in  such  a  mood. 

But  of  course  she  did  not  think  of  reading  a  word.  She 
half  closed  the  book,  and  said  triumphantly : 

"  I  have  it ! " 

He  took  a  long  stride  towards  her. 

"  Signorina,  you  will  give  it  to  me  1 "  His  tone  made  it 
almost  a  command,  and  this  made  her  defiant.  She  folded  her 
hands  over  it. 

"  You  gave  it  to  me,  signore." 

For  a  moment  they  were  both  silent,  her  clear  eyes  encoun- 
tering his  with  a  curious  expression  of  mingled  fire,  determina- 
tion, and  experiment. 

"  He  shall  not  have  the  book,"  she  was  thinking ;  "  but  he 
ought  to  make  me  give  it  to  him." 

He  half  recognised  the  only  way  to  cope  with  her  was  in 
placing  entire  confidence  in  her,  but  the  impatience  which  so 
often  foils  victory — perhaps  also  his  intense  desire  to  prove  to 
himself  some  influence  over  her — seized  him  then. 

"  Signora,"  he  repeated,  "  you  will  give  me  that  book." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  1 "  she  returned,  smiling. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  but  Beth  now  detected  a  slight  wavering 
in  his  tone. 

"  Why  should  I  ? "  she  asked. 


28  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  Because  I  desire  it." 

"  Are  your  desires  usually  so  important  to  me  ? "  she  ex- 
claimed haughtily. 

"  They  shall  be — in  this  instance  ! "  he  replied  with  a  fierce 
catch  in  his  voice. 

"  Ah  ?" 

She  met  his  eyes  again  with  dauntless  resolution.  It  was 
a  curious  sight  to  see,  this  dainty,  seated  maiden  defying  with 
calm  coolness  the  fiery-souled  man  who  stood  before  her. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Mrs.  Trescott  had  dropped 
her  work,  and  was  watching  with  interest. 

"  He  must  conquer  now  or  never,"  she  thought. 

His  burning  eyes  plunged  into  his  opponent's,  and  recog- 
nised there  a  superior  strength.  This  woman  possessed  a 
power  he  could  not  thwart.  Her  indomitable  spirit  paralysed 
him,  while  raising  his  admiration,  his  passion,  to  a  dizzy  height. 

He  dared  no  longer  look  at  her.  Without  a  word  he  ground 
his  heel  on  the  marble  floor,  and,  turning,  left  her. 

Beth  drew  a  long  breath,  and  laid  the  book  on  the  table. 
She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  then,  her  eyes  brilliant  as  two 
stars,  triumph  and  regret  mingling  strangely. 

"  What  a  disturbance  over  nothing !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Trescott, 
laughing.  "You  might  a  great  deal  better  have  taken  my 
advice  and  read  the  poems,  Beth.  But  here  is  your  book, 
signore,  and  you  had  better  make  use  of  your  model  while  you 
can." 

Signor  Straora  did  not  answer.  He  had  gone  quite  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  and  was  hidden  by  a  screen. 

Beth  was  already  regretting  her  impulsive  action.  She 
did  not  blame  herself  for  measuring  lances,  when  it  once  came 
to  battle,  but  she  wished  she  had  avoided  the  cause. 

"  I  came  to  give  him  a  pleasure,  and  I  have  annoyed  him 
instead,"  she  thought. 

As  he  walked  slowly  towards  her  he  saw  the  wistful  ex- 
pression on  her  face.  His  own  was  what  the  French  call 
morne. 

"  Signora,"  he  said,  stopping  at  some  little  distance  from 
her,  "  I  cannot  ask  your  pardon.  I  am  not  worthy  of  your 
favour."  He  took  the  book  and  laid  it  on  the  red  coals. 
"  That,  at  least,  will  not  come  between  us  more." 

Beth  sprang  up  to  rescue  the  book  instinctively,  but  it  was 


CHAP,  in.]  AN  AVOWAL.  29 

too  late.  The  blue  flames  shrivelled  and  curled  the  binding ; 
then  crept  in  among  the  leaves,  and  burst  forth  into  a  bright 
conflagration. 

Beth  drew  a  step  nearer.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said 
earnestly.  "  I  am  grieved  to  make  you  lose  your  book." 

"  It  is  not  the  book,"  he  murmured.  Then,  aloud  :  "  You 
have  nothing  to  regret,  nor  any  pardon  to  ask.  Indeed,  that 
would  be  impossible  from  you  to  me."  He  stopped.  The  gray 
ashes  were  whirling  up  the  chimney.  "  Addio!"  he  whispered, 
in  an  echo  of  passionate  accents. 

Beth  was  awed  by  his  manner.  She  was 'silent  and  motion- 
less. How  she  wished  she  had  never  returned ! 

Presently  he  moved  a  little  towards  her,  and,  with  down- 
cast eyes,  began  speaking  rapidly: 

"  Madonna,  you  do  not  know  what  you  have  been  to  me ; 
what  you  are,  and  always  will  be.  Nothing  can  rob  me  of  you. 
I  am  as  sure  of  you  as  of  God's  saints — as  of  our  Blessed 
Lady."  He  paused,  and  his  eyes  now  wandered  with  a  despair- 
ing intensity  over  the  lovely  features,  the  tremulous  mouth,  and 
drooping  lids  of  deep-set  eyes. 

"  I  am  going  away,"  he  went  on.  "  I  am  not  worthy  to  be 
near  you.  I  would  gladly  be  the  marble  beneath  your  feet, 
to  thrill  with  pleasure  when  you  pressed  it.  But,  I  am  not 
marble,  and — I  go  away.  Don't  try  to  answer  me.  I  know 
all  you  would  say.  Your  face  has  become  the  best-known  page 
in  life  to  me.  You  cannot  conceal  what  you  think ;  and  yet,  I 
never  can  read  deep  enough." 

The  fluttering  flush  that  came  and  went  on  her  cheeks,  the 
distress,  the  poignant  regret,  warned  him  he  must  not  prolong 
his  last  study  of  this  dearest  face. 

He  bent  before  her,  and  took  her  two  hands  in  his. 

"  Remember,  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  "  and  I  leave  you." 

He  pressed  one  and  the  other  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Addio,  madonna  mia." 

Not  daring  to  trust  himself  further,  he  bowed  to  Mrs. 
Trescott  and  left  the  room. 

"What  on  earth  does  all  this  mean?"  exclaimed  Mabel. 
She  had  not  overheard  the  low  quick  words. 

"  It  means  that  we  are  to  go.     Come  quick,  auntie." 

"You  are  the  most  incomprehensible  couple!"  said  Mrs. 
Trescott,  but  she  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak. 


30  BETHESDA.  [I-AIIT  i. 

When  they  were  going  downstairs  Beth  cried  iii  an  under- 
tone: 

"It  is  my  fault,  my  fault !  I  ought  never  to  have  come 
back  1" 

Mabel's  answer  was  an  incredulous  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  all  this  fuss  is  about,"  she  said,  as  they 
entered  the  carriage. 

"Oh,  I  can't!"  said  Beth  in  a  choked  voice.  She  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cypresses,  and  these  stirred  recollections 
which  made  her  self-reproach  still  more  cutting. 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  Mrs.  Trescott,  suddenly  wise.  "  Don't 
make  so  much  of  it,  child.  He'll  get  over  his  sweet  trouble 
soon  enough.  A  little  love  hurts  no  man.  Each  one  thinks 
his  heart  is  broken,  of  course,  when  the  self-conceit  is  flattened 
out  of  it ;  but  it  is  a  very  elastic  contrivance,  which  soon  puffs 
out  again.  Don't  worry." 

Beth  hardly  heard  her.  "  I  have  done  wrong,  wrong,"  she 
was  saying  to  herself.  "  I  wish  I  were  ugly  and  hateful.  I 

don't  see  why  persons  like  me I  am  not  worthy  of  it, — 

and  I  have  hurt  him  so ! " 

It  showed  the  difference  between  the  two.  These  little 
things  made  the  "divide."  Streams  whose  springs  were  close 
together  would,  as  they  increased,  empty  into  different  seas. 

In  the  evening  a  letter  was  handed  Mrs.  Trescott  from  the 
artist.  He  thanked  them  for  their  great  kindness,  and  told 
them  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  city  for  an  indefinite  period. 
He  ended  the  short  note  with  these  words  : — 

"  You  have  given  me  the  purest  and  noblest  hours  of  my 
existence,  and  whatever  the  future  may  bring,  believe  that  the 
inspiration  contained  in  them  will  not  stop  with  this  world.  If 
at  any  time  my  life  can  be  of  service  to  you,  command  it. — 
Devotedly  yours,  ALBEKTO  STBAOKA  m  ALBANA." 


CHAP,  iv.]  LETTEES.  31 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  They  fail,  and  they  alone,  who  have  not  striven." 

J.  B.  ALDRIOH. 

"  Thine  eyes,  too  wise,  are  heavy  with  the  dole, 
The  doubt,  the  dread,  of  all  this  human  maze." 

E.  W.  GILDER. 

IT  was  the  end  of  February ;  a  day  deepened  in  beauty  from 
the  one  on  which  Bethesda  had  lain  on  the  sod  in  the  garden, 
and  afterwards  had  consented  to  return  to  Signer  Straora's 
studio ;  but  the  air  was  only  more  deliciously  soft,  the  tender- 
ness of  the  landscape  but  more  articulate,  and  Bethesda  a  little 
lovelier.  A  month  could  not  pass  with  her  now,  any  more 
than  with  the  spring,  and  not  leave  its  slow,  sweet  traces.  It 
begins  early  in  Italy,  but  only  reaches  perfection  there,  as  else- 
where, in  the  midst  of  June  roses. 

Bethesda  was  waiting  now  outside  the  English  bank,  where 
her  aunt  had  gone  for  letters.  The  old  Florentine  palace,  thus 
desecrated,  towered  majestically  into,  the  sunshine,  and  formed  a 
rugged  background  to  the  varied  life  of  the  street ;  and  the 
lounging  idlers,  the  busy  hucksters,  the  crippled  beggars,  and 
energetic  foreigners,  all  turned  to  give  at  least  a  second  glance 
at  the  dainty  figure  seated  in  the  little  phaeton. 

She  would  have  been  surprised  had  she  known  how  many, 
who  were  entire  strangers,  were  well  acquainted  with  her  habits, 
and  looked  for  her  passing  as  something  worth  watching  for. 
She  was  one  of  those  women  whose  faces  grow  more  beautiful 
as  they  become  familiar,  and  which  do  not  need  a  voice  to 
speak.  The  simple  discerning  Italians  pointed  her  out  to  one 
another  with  real  affection,  and  called  her  :  Our  lovely  lady. 

She  found  this  morning  the  glances  she  attracted  somewhat 
embarrassing  at  last,  and  exclaimed  joyfully  when  Mrs.  Trescott 
appeared,  a  packet  of  letters  in  her  hand.* 

"Isn't  it  delightful  to  have  such  a  big  mail?"  she  said. 
"  Who  is  that  thick  one  of  yours  from  ?  Aunt  Agatha?  Couldn't 
we  break  our  rule  just  for  to-day,  and  glance  over  some  of  these 
now?" 

"No,  Beth,  don't.     Trouble  will  come  quick  enough  any 


32  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

way.  There's  something  wrong  in  those  letters.  Oh,  I  know 
it  You  needn't  argue  with  me.  I  have  had  a  spell  without 
any  trouble,  and  now  it's  bound  to  come ;  so  let  us  enjoy  our 
drive  while  we  can." 

"As  you  like,  dear.  Presentiments  can  only  be  met  by 
proving  there  is  nothing  in  them,  or  else  by  making  up  one's 
mind  to  meet  whatever  may  come  bravely ;  but " 

"  You  needn't  preach  to  me.  Try  and  make  me  forget  it 
rather.  That  is  the  best  you  can  do." 

It  was  again  an  example  of  their  difference.  She  had  tried 
to  give  what  she  sought  on  that  day  in  December :  a  strengthen- 
ing in  view  of  some  calamity.  But  she  was  finding  out  that  it 
is  not  by  any  means  an  infallible  rule  to  do  as  one  would  be 
done  by.  Some  natures  are  diametrically  opposed  :  what  is 
kind  to  one  is  cruel  to  the  other. 

She  made  an  effort,  therefore,  to  do  as  her  aunt  had  done  by 
her;  talked  to  her  cheerily  and  entertainingly,  and  was  re- 
warded by  the  gloom  lifting  somewhat  from  Mrs.  Trescott's 
face. 

During  this  they  passed  the  Porta  Romana,  and  followed 
the  road  which  wound  upwards  in  easy  curves,  bordered  by 
trees  which  cast  young  shadows  across  the  wide  walks  and 
gardens,  that  filled  in  the  interstices  of  the  doubling  carriage- 
way. On  either  side  ancient  and  modern  villas  rose,  among 
shimmering  olive  groves,  whose  leaves  stirred  in  the  sunny  air, 
and  caught  lights  never  twice  the  same. 

"Does  this  ever  cease  to  be  a  surprise?"  said  Beth. 
"  Day  after  day  we  come  by  here,  and  still  it  is  always  new, 
always  an  unexpected  foretaste  of  the  pleasure  we  know  is 
beyond." 

"Dear  Italy!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  throwing  a  kiss  to  the 
landscape  with  her  usual  extravagance.  "  Who  cares  for  pre- 
sentiments while  we  can  breathe  this  air,  and  smell  this 
fragrance,  and  look  at  this  view,  and,  in  short,  drive  around 
the  ViadeiColli!" 

"  Here  is  the  field  where  we  gathered  wild-flowers  last 
year  ;  don't  you  want  to  try  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  charming." 

A  moment  later  they  were  pushing  their  way  through  a 
wild  hedge,  and,  amidst  the  sprouting  grain,  along  the  fringed 
edges  of  the  field,  delightedly  espied  hyacinths  and  harebells, 


CHAP,  iv.]  THE  VIA  DEI  COLLI.  33 

violets  and  anemones,  and  the  voluptuous  narcissi,  passionate 
as  a  southern  beauty. 

After  the  first  exclamations  they  gathered  the  blossoms  in 
silence,  except  for  a  cry  now  and  then  from  Mabel.  Nature's 
unseen  incense,  rising  around  them,  seemed  to  have  permeated 
Beth,  for  when  she  joined  Mabel  at  last  her  liquid  eyes  were 
eloquent  of  mysteries  half  revealed,  of  truths  whose  fragrance 
came  to  her  as  the  flower-scents  did.  What  was  it  about 
odours  being  like  the  prayers  of  saints  1 

"  Just  see  these  narcissi,"  she  said.  "  Aren't  thick  white 
blossoms  intense  beyond  all  the  coloured  flowers  ?  It  is  surely 
the  white  heat,  which  seems  cool  from  its  very  excess." 

"Ugh!  they're  suffocating!"  exclaimed  Mabel,  pushing 
them  away,  and  hurrying  to  the  carriage.  "Come;  it's 
horribly  hot  in  the  sun." 

The  coachman  stopped  again  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  with- 
out waiting  to  be  told.  Often  the  ladies  sat  here  for  half  an 
hour,  at  the  base  of  the  great  bronze  David,  with  the  cypresses 
of  San  Miniato  piercing  the  deep  purple  sky,  like  a  reticent 
question,  behind  them. 

Beneath  lay  the  most  beautiful  valley  and  city  in  the  world. 
There  were  the  narrow,  irregular  streets  of  the  old  town,  and 
the  house-covered  bridges,  under  which  ran  the  yellow  Arno, 
now  filled  by  snow  gathered  from  the  spring-touched  Apennines. 
Across  the  river  statued  palaces  extended  their  porticoes  to  the 
river's  edge,  and  beyond  lay  the  mass  of  merchant  houses, 
surmounted  at  close  intervals  by  domes  and  spires,  uplifting 
high  into  the  violet  air  the  holy,  golden  cross. 

As  they  sat  there,  from  a  hundred  towers  rang  forth  the 
bells,  announcing  the  hour  of  noon,  the  twelfth  hour  which 
combines  those  of  all  the  apostles ;  and  as  the  mellow  chimes 
died  away  in  the  purple  shadows  of  the  hills,  the  silence 
brought  an  indescribable  sensation  of  listening  angels  bending 
over  the  city  in  a  radiance  so  bright  that  they  could  not  be 
seen. 

Involuntarily  following  the  echoing  sounds  Beth's  eyes 
wandered  off  over  the  far  distance,  where  the  exquisitely 
shaded  mountains  fell  back  to  give  place  to  the  sea-like  valley  ; 
and  the  peaks  of  Carrara  lifted  high  their  snowy  heads  above 
the  hearts  where  lie  untold  beauties  of  future  statues.  Beyond 
these  there  was  only  the  sky, — the  heavens, — that  is  all.  But 

D 


34:  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

the  mighty  light  made  this  blue  too  glorious  for  human  eyes, 
so  they  fell,  and  followed  back  again  the  billowy  mountains, 
rising  and  sinking  in  the  wondrous  atmosphere,  bearing  castles 
and  peasant  homes  alike  upon  their  bosoms,  to  the  gray  walls 
of  Fiesole. 

Over  the  face  of  Bethesda,  as  she  gazed,  swept  the  ex- 
pression of  many  unuttered,  uncomprehended  thoughts.  The 
beauty  oppressed  while  it  exalted  her.  She  felt  wide  wings 
unfold  themselves  to  bear  her  up,  and  her  body  held  her  down. 
She  would  have  liked  to  be  the  life  in  the  earth,  the  warmth 
in  the  air,  the  light  in  the  sun ;  anything  great  and  impersonal, 
which  would  satisfy  this  strange  yearning  within  her,  that 
seemed  infinite  in  its  capacity,  and  would  not  be  subdued. 

"  Gracious,  child  !     What  are  you  thinking  about  ?" 

Beth  started  sensitively,  and  turned  back  to  the  carriage. 
She  could  not  try  to  talk  any  more.  She  felt  hushed,  yet 
thrilled,  as  if  breathing  in  the  silence  before  a  voice  should  speak. 

Mabel's  heavy  depression  closed  in  upon  them  both  as  they 
drove  home,  where  the  letters  must  soon  be  read.  Mrs. 
Trescott  did  not  care  to  make  an  effort  to  diminish  its  effect. 

"What  is  the  good?"  she  said,  when  Beth  tried  to  rouse 
her.  "  It's  only  one  thing  more,  and  life  has  not  been  so  easy 
to  me  thus  far  that  I  should  expect  anything  but  trouble  in 
the  future.  It  has  been  hard,  hard;  motherless,  homeless, 
childless,  a  widow  and  an  exile ; — and  now — who  knows  what 
worse  is  coming  ?" 

She  looked  with  dislike  on  the  packet  bearing  the  hand- 
writing usually  so  warmly  welcomed. 

"  How  grieved  Aunt  Agatha  and  Margaret  would  be  to 
have  their  letters  meet  with  such  a  reception  !"  said  Beth  ; 
and  then,  seeing  it  useless  to  say  more,  and  perhaps  a  little  of 
the  weight  of  Mabel's  gloom  falling  on  her  too,  they  drove 
the  rest  of  the  way  in  silence. 

Her  shadowy  room  looked  very  calm  and  restful  to  the 
girl  after  the  warm  drive  and  oppressive  mental  atmosphere. 
She  let  herself  drop  on  the  lounge,  and  lay  there  a  few  moments 
in  utter  lassitude.  Then  she  roused  herself  with  a  start. 

"  Bah  !  it  is  better  to  bring  down  the  sword  of  Damocles 
on  one's  devoted  head  than  fear  what  may  not  exist." 

She  tore  open  one  of  the  envelopes  bearing  her  sister's 
handwriting.  It  commenced  abruptly  : — 


CHAP,  iv.]  GATHERING  OF  THREADS.  35 

"  Father  is  ill,  very  ill.  They  say  he  will  not  live.  Miss 
Sink  is  nursing  him.  If  it  were  not  for  that  I  should  go  to 
him.  Aunt  Agatha  kindly  said  she  would  go  with  me,  if  I 
wished  it,  but  I  told  her  no.  Was  I  right  ?  Would  you  have 
done  the  same  ?  Our  lawyer  is  to  keep  us  posted.  If  father 
asks  for  us,  for  either  of  us,  of  course  I  will  start  at  once." 

The  rest  of  the  letter,  about  other  things,  Beth  read  with- 
out understanding.  It  was  appalling,  someway,  to  be  so  far 
off,  and  not  aware  whether  her  father,  now,  was  alive  or  dead. 

She  had  known  him  but  very  little.  His  wife  had  died  at 
her  birth,  and  he  had  separated  himself  almost  entirely  from 
his  children,  leaving  them  in  the  care  of  their  young  aunts, 
who  had  been  brought  up  by  his  wife,  and  were  then  unmarried. 
His  life  was  of  a  description  which  made  him  feel  less  uneasy 
away  from  the  innocent  eyes  of  his  children  and  the  wiser  ones 
of  their  protectors.  He  had  a  large  fortune,  and  was  liberal 
with  it,  so  that  he  was  quite  willing  to  give  a  generous  allow- 
ance to  "  the  girls  "  for  the  care  of  their  little  nieces.  When 
Agatha  married,  the  two  were  left  under  Mabel's  charge ;  but 
later,  after  her  own  romantic  marriage  to  a  lover  upon  his  death- 
bed, Mr.  Hamilton  showed  some  desire  to  regain  control  of  his 
children.  At  first  it  was  looked  upon  as  a  hopeful  sign,  then 
recognised  as  only  a  deeper  step  into  evil.  He  was  no  longer 
ashamed.  Mabel  now  saw  her  opportunity  of  fulfilling  a  life- 
long wish  and  going  abroad.  Every  year  made  it  more  danger- 
ous for  the  children,  as  long  as  they  were  under  age.  There 
was  "  a  scene  "  with  Mr.  Hamilton — a  power  which  Mrs.  Tres- 
cott  had  always  held  over  the  man,  lashing  him  with  her 
sarcasm  and  bitter  invectives,  like  a  second  Queen  Margaret, 
and  he  could  not  walk  on,  regardless  of  the  stinging  scorpions, 
like  another  Richard.  So  she  had  her  way.  She  shook  with 
energy  the  dust  of  America  from  her  feet,  glad  to  leave  all  old 
associations  and  begin  life  anew. 

It  was  a  new  life,  at  all  events,  for  in  the  first  year  she 
heard  of  the  death  of  Milton  Eglamore,  the  one  man  she  had 
loved,  and  who  had  broken  their  engagement  for  some  trifling 
cause.  This  had  been  the  real  reason  of  her  hasty  marriage. 
She  wanted  to  put  something  between  her  and  the  memory  of 
her  "  dastard  "  lover.  It  had  hardly  been  successful.  As  long 
as  there  was  life  there  was  hope.  When  this  went  out,  however, 


36  BETHESDA.  [I'.viiT  i. 

after  the  first  shock,  the  rich  widow  became  more  lively  and 
dashing  than  ever.  She  called  herself  "an  exile"  at  times,  but 
in  reality  she  liked  Europe.  It  would  be  a  trial  to  her  to  give 
it  up.  Margaret  had  gone  home  as  soon  as  she  Avas  of  age  to 
live  with  Agatha  Stanhope,  and  presently  Beth  would  be  of  age 
too.  She  could  return  then  also,  but  Mrs.  Trescott  did  not 
eagerly  anticipate  that  repeal  of  the  decree  of  banishment.  In 
any  case  there  was  a  year  more,  and  who  knew  what  might 
not  happen  in  a  year  1 

Beth  knew  the  facts  of  all  this ;  she  surmised,  perhaps, 
the  feelings.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  the  knowledge  of 
more  of  the  darker  side  in  life  than  most  women  of  her  class 
and  years.  It  had  perhaps  given  her  her  earnestness  and  yearn- 
ing to  do  right ;  but  she  had  little  to  steady  her.  Now, 
looking  out  into  this  life  from  which  her  own  had  sprung,  seeing 
it  on  the  verge  of  the  unknown  and  awful  future,  she  shrank 
back  appalled. 

Presently,  however,  she  opened  another  letter  of  later  date. 

"  We  received  a  telegram  to-day,"  it  said.  "  Father  died 
last  night  quite  easily,  and  seemingly  content.  He  never 
mentioned  either  of  us.  When  Mr.  Simpson  asked  him  at  last 
if  he  should  not  send  for  me,  '  No,'  he  said ;  '  the  will  is  right ; 
the  will  is  right.'  That  was  all.  Uncle  Raleigh  goes  on  to- 
night to  be  present  at  the  reading  of  the  will." 

Beth  dropped  the  paper,  and  sat  looking  out  with  unseeing 
eyes  on  the  swaying  branches  and  blue  sky  visible  through  the 
lattice. 

Could  it  be  that  her  f oilier  was  dead  and  she  felt  no  more  ? 
Oh,  the  sadness  of  it,  the  bitter  sadness,  that  she  could  not 
grieve  for  him !  She  would  have  done  much  to  have  helped 
him.  It  had  been  a  dream  all  her  life  that  some  time  she 
might  be  of  service  to  him.  She  had  thought  of  his  old  age, 
and  his  daughters  caring  for  him.  And  this  was  the  end — 
this  was  all. 

Hark  !  what  was  that  1  It  sounded  like  a  sob.  Yes,  and 
there  was  another.  In  an  instant  Beth  had  unfastened  the 
door  into  Mrs.  Trescott's  room  and  had  sprung  to  Mabel's  side. 
She  was  sitting  by  a  table,  her  face  hidden,  and  was  crying 
violently. 

"  Dear  heart,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  Beth  exclaimed,  while 
she  knelt  and  put  her  arm  around  the  quivering  figure. 


CHAP,  iv.]  A  DREADED  OPPORTUNITY.  37 

There  was  no  answer  but  an  acceleration  of  sobs  at  the 
caressing  touch,  and  a  gradual  subsidence  of  them  as  the  sym- 
pathetic silence  calmed  and  healed.  At  last  Mabel  put  the 
letter  which  had  caused  the  outburst  into  Beth's  hand,  indicating 
with  a  gesture  for  her  to  read  it  in  her  own  room. 

Bethesda  did  as  she  was  bidden.  The  letter  was  one  from 
Agatha.  It  was  later  than  either  of  Margaret's,  and  told  of 
Mr.  Stanhope's  return.  Mr.  Hamilton's  will  had  been  read, 
and  was  found  to  leave  his  property  to  his  daughters,  half  and 
half.  Mrs.  Trescott  and  Mr.  Stanhope  were  left  joint  guardians. 
There  was  no  word  of  regret  or  affection,  but  his  acts  had 
spoken  well  for  his  feelings  towards  his  children.  He  had  no 
wish  to  rob  them  of  what  was  rightfully  theirs. 

"  You  can  come  home  now  without  fear,"  continued  Agatha, 
"  and  I  am  sure  you  must  be  anxious  to  do  so.  It  is  un- 
doubtedly your  duty.  The  girls  both  need  what  they  have 
never  had — a  home  which  they  feel  to  be  permanent.  You 
will  be  happier  in  one  yourself.  Besides,  here  are  all  these 
business  affairs  to  settle  in  which  you  and  Raleigh  are  equally 
concerned ;  and  Raleigh's  care  of  your  own  money  was  first 
proposed  for  two  years  only,  and  under  a  pressure  of  circum- 
stances now  removed.  He  is  still  willing  to  do  all  the  work, 
but  he  wishes  you  to  share  the  responsibility.  I  hope  you  will 
come  home  as  early  as  possible  and  settle  near  us.  There  is  a 
pretty  house  whose  grounds  adjoin  ours  which  is  now  for  sale. 
Margaret  and  I  think  it  would  just  suit  you  all.  I  remember 
Beth  admired  it  when  she  was  here.  I  have  asked  them  to 
hold  it  until  I  hear  from  you. 

"Is  our  girlish  intercourse  to  be  renewed  in  happier 
surroundings  1  And  shall  we  enjoy  together  seeing  our  nieces 
develop  and  mature  ? " 

Could  it  be  this  which  had  caused  Mrs.  Trescott's  passionate 
outburst  ?  Yes,  Beth  could  see  how  it  appeared  to  her  aunt. 
She  was  suddenly  asked — perhaps  she  might  even  think  coerced 
• — to  give  up  Europe,  in  whose  free  life  Beth  knew  she  delighted. 
She  was  accountable  to  nobody  but  herself  here ;  she  could  do 
as  she  chose ;  she  need  not  look  at  the  serious  side  of  things 
any  more  than  it  pleased  her.  Over  there  it  would  be  quite 
different.  Beth  had  keenly  recognised  this  during  her  visit  to 
America.  She  could  feel  how  the  hampering  of  family  consulta- 
tions would  chafe  her  aunt,  accustomed  to  having  her  own  will 


38  BETHESDA.  [PART  I. 

an  unquestioned  law.  But  there  was  the  affection,  the  stability, 
the  home  life  !  Yet  these  would  not  compensate  to  her  aunt, 
she  knew.  Change,  travel,  and  society  had  taken  their  place. 
Thoughts  had  given  way  to  things.  It  was  all  a  pleasant,  out- 
ward life  here ;  there  it  was  earnest  and  thoughtful. 

It  would  be  a  trial  to  Aunt  Mabel,  but  it  must  be  done, 
decided  Beth.  Her  own  heart  yearned  for  her  sister  and 
aunt.  For  America  ?  Well,  no,  she  could  not  truthfully  say 
that.  She  liked  Europe  too.  It  was  more  homelike  to  her 
than  America.  They  might  come  back  again  for  a  visit  some 
time.  Now  it  was  their  duty,  as  Aunt  Agatha  said,  to  make  a 
home. 

But  Aunt  Mabel  must  not  be  forced  in  any  sense.  She 

must  take  her  own  way.  This  house  in  S .  It  was  a  rare 

chance,  but  if  Aunt  Mabel  felt  badly  about  it,  it  must  be  given 
up,  for  to  take  it  would  be  a  continual  misery  to  her.  America 
was  large ;  they  might  settle  anywhere ;  but  anywhere  out  of 

S :  it  would  have  to  be  these  two  alone.  Margaret  would 

not  feel  it  right  to  leave  the  Stanhopes.  Still,  Beth  was  willing. 
She  could  not  have  her  aunt,  who  had  done  so  much  for  her, 
unhappy. 

The  troubles  she  foresaw  worried  the  girl,  and  yet  when- 
ever there  came  a  lull  in  her  thoughts  these  things  sank  into 
insignificance  within  the  terrible  silence  of  her  father's  unloved 
death.  Where  was  he  now  1  What  did  he  know  now  1  And 
the  darkness  and  the  sense  of  vastness  crushed  her. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"Men,  at  some  time,  are  masters  of  their  fates." 

Julius  Ccesar. 

WHILE  Bethesda  was  still  thinking  a  knock  came  at  the  door, 
and  a  telegram  was  handed  her.  Rendered  fearful  by  the 
unwonted  emotions  of  the  day,  the  yellow  envelope  caused 
her  a  momentary  chill,  and  she  tore  it  open  hastily  to  end 
suspense. 

It  was  in  French,  which  relieved  her  fears,  but  surprised  her. 

"  Hope  to  be  in  Florence  Thursday,  only  for  a  few  hours. 


CHAP,  v.]  INDECISION  BEGETS  FATE.  39 

May  I  sec  you  in  the  evening  1     I  entreat  assent.     Will  await 
your  answer. — EENB  D'!STEN." 

"  How  very  peculiar  !"  exclaimed  Beth,  her  sensitive  lips 
gathering  a  little  scorn. 

She  took  the  missive  immediately  to  her  aunt,  who  was 
writing,  and  looked  up  with  hot  angry  eyes. 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter,  auntie,"  said  the  girl ;  "  it  is  only 
a  telegram  from  your  friend  M.  d'Isten." 

"  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  Mabel,  surprised  into  forgetfulness 
of  her  troubles. 

While  she  read  Beth  watched,  and  saw  it  did  indeed  change 
the  current  of  her  aunt's  mind.  She  half  smiled  as  she  laid  it 
down. 

"At  least  he  is  not  timid,"  she  said. 

"Bather  audacious,  I  should  say.  Excuse  me  for  opening 
it.  I  did  so  by  mistake.  The  boy  is  waiting." 

"  Shall  I  answer  it  V  asked  Mrs.  Trescott  undecidedly. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  answered  Beth  in  a  reticent  tone.  "  That 
is  a  question  no  one  but  you  can  decide." 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  ought,  when  he  says  he  will  wait  for  it. 
But  I  can't  think  very  well,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  to  her 
head  pitifully.  "  Do  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"How  can  I  say,  auntie  dear?  You  must  remember  I 
know  nothing  of  how  you  stand.  Weren't  you  offended  with 
him  1  Do  you  wish  to  see  him  ?" 

"  The  last  I  heard  from  him,"  said  Mrs.  Trescott  evasively, 
"  he  assured  me  I  had  entirely  misunderstood  him.  He  was 
sure  if  we  met  he  could  convince  me.  Of  course  he  couldn't ; 
but  then,  it  looks  as  if  he  had  some  excuse  to  telegraph  this, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Do  you  wish  to  hear  the  excuse?  That  is  the  only 
question.  If  you  think  it  is  a  matter  which  cannot  be  ex- 
plained, there  is  no  use  in  seeing  him.  If  you  consider  it  may 
be  a  mere  misunderstanding,  why,  let  him  come." 

"  Then  you  advise  his  coming  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  advise  anything.  I  know  nothing  about  it, 
remember." 

"  I  think  I  will  give  him  the  opportunity,  and  see" what  he 
makes  of  it,"  decided  Mabel  after  a  moment's  thought.  "  I 
used  to  like  him  very  much,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  have  warm 


40  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

friends ;  never  pleasanter  than  when  your  relatives  are  treating 

you  harshly." 

The  bitter  look  came  again  in  her  face  as  she  turned  to  her 

portfolio. 

"How   shall  I  word  it?"   she  asked,  with  an  appealing 

glance  from  abused  eyes. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  clearly  it  is  for  an  explanation  ?" 

"  How  can  I  ?     Here,  you  write  it.    My  head  is  in  a  whirl." 

She  rose  and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  while  Beth  quickly 

wrote : — 

"Madame  Trescott  will  receive  Monsieur  d'Isten  if  he 
thinks  himself  authorised  to  call." 

She  read  it  aloud. 

"  It  is  surely  cold  enough,  but  better  so  perhaps.  And  now 
tell  me,"  she  added,  when  Beth  had  despatched  the  boy, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  Agatha's  letter  1 " 

"  I  think  you  had  better  simply  tell  her  now  that  you  won't 
take  the  house,  and  decide  the  rest  later.  You  were  writing  to 
her?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  did  not  say  that." 

"  Will  you  let  me  add  it,  then,  and  take  the  letter  ?"  asked 
Beth  very  gently.  She  saw  her  aunt's  eyes  filling  again,  and 
would  have  liked  to  spare  her.  Somehow  to-day  she  was 
trying  to  do  her  best  actively,  with  a  stealthy  sense  of  un- 
reality beneath. 

"You  are  quite  sure  you  don't  want  the  house?"  said 
Mabel,  ready  to  sob  again. 

"  Not  unless  you  wish  it,  auntie  clear." 

"You  know  I  would  be  utterly  wretched  there!"  cried 
Mabel,  flashing  forth  a  moment.  "  A  western  town  ! — And 
right  after  Europe  ! — It  is  cruel  to  propose  such  a  thing — I 
thought  Agatha  knew — knew," and  cared  for — me — more." 

"  Let  me  add  that  you  won't  take  the  house,"  said  Beth. 
"  That  is  decided.  No  one,  dear  auntie,  wants  you  to  go 
where  you  will  be  unhappy." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Trescott,  between  her  sobs ; 
"but — we  can  take  another  house — later — if  you — want  to." 

"  I  sha'n't  want  one  until  you  do,  rest  assured,"  said  Beth 
in  a  cheery  tone ;  and  then  she  hurriedly  added  a  few  words  to 
the  angry  pages,  and  took  the  letter  away,  promising  herself 


CHAP,  v.]  SYMPATHY.  41 

not  to  mail  it,  but  keep  it  quietly  until  the  next  day.  Mabel 
might  regret  some  of  the  harsh  things  she  had  said  by  that 
time.  Beth  did  not  yet  understand  that  for  Mrs.  Trescott  to 
regret  anything  sufficiently  to  wish  to  take  it  back  would  be  to 
shatter  the  whole  fabric  of  her  character. 

In  the  rich  luxurious  room  to  which  Beth  now  returned 
a  very  Cleopatra  in  variability  was  lying  on  the  lounge, 
ready  to  burst  into  tears  again,  or  to  be  coaxed  into  smiles. 

Beth  did  not  excite  either.  At  such  a  time  her  tenderness 
was  especially  healing.  And  now,  as  she  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  couch,  and  smoothed  the  burning  forehead,  not  speak- 
ing a  word,  but  covering  Mabel  with  the  shelter  of  her  care, 
she  soothed  her  almost  to  sleep. 

Finally  she  left  her  on  tiptoe,  and  went  into  her  own  room, 
and  put  on  her  white  wrapper,  and  bathed  her  face.  What 
a  full  day  it  had  been,  and  how  tired  she  was  ! 

But  she  must  write  a  few  words  of  explanation  to  Aunt 
Agatha,  and  thank  Uncle  Ealeigh,  and  say  a  little  some- 
thing to  Margaret,  her  only  sister ;  the  two  orphans  now 
together. 

She  had  just  finished  when  a  well-known  knock  came  at 
the  door,  and  Beth  hastened  to  open  it,  feeling  especially 
glad  to  see  Evra,  now  that  she  was  sore  at  heart,  and  im- 
potent to  disentangle  the  threads  of  love  which  seemed  to  be 
tying  themselves  in  a  hard  knot  around  her. 

The  keen  ear  of  the  artist  instantly  detected  the  quiver 
of  sorrow  and  fatigue,  however,  and  Beth's  face  was  worn, 
for  she  was  one  on  whom  worry  told  more  than  much  phy- 
sical pain. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dearest  ?"  exclaimed  Evra,  throwing 
aside  a  choice  cluster  of  lilies  and  roses  to  take  Beth's  hands 
in  both  hers. 

"  We  have  had  letters " 

"  Letters  ? "  interrupted  Evra,  as  she  saw  it  was  hard  for 
Beth,  to  speak.  "  I  know  what  that  is  !  And  they  have  been 
hurting  my  Lily  1  It's  cruel ! " 

"  It's  not  me,  Evra ;  and  it  could  not  be  helped.  But — 
0  Evra  !  my  father  is  dead." 

Then  the  tired  heart  broke  down,  and  she  buried  her  face  in 
Evra's  breast  and  cried  miserably. 

The  artist  held  her  with  the  utmost  tenderness,  saying  many 


42  BETHESDA.  [PART  r. 

endearing  things,  and,  with  ready  comprehension,  trying  to 
strengthen  rather  than  soothe  her. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  said  Beth  presently.  "  It  was  foolish  in 
me  to  break  down  so.  You  must  not  think  it  is  only  my  father's 
death,"  she  added,  sensitive  to  the  least  suspicion  of  hypocrisy. 
"  We  have  seen  nothing  of  him  for  years,  and  I  hardly  knew 
him.  It  was  the  shock,  I  suppose,  and  auntie's  being  quite 
upset  by  some  plans.  They  wish  us  to  go  home  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  auntie  feels  badly  about  it.  I  have  been  trying 
to  help  her,  and  never  thought  of  crying  until  I  saw  you." 

"  Because  you  knew  I  would  understand,  cara.  It  has 
worn  you  out,  supporting  your  aunt.  It's  a  shame  for  one  so 
delicate  to  be  tried  so.  Don't  bother  about  the  flowers  now. 
Come,  lie  down  here,  and  let  me  sit  beside  you.  Your  hands 
are  burning,  child.  This  will  never  do.  I  shall  carry  you  off, 
and  keep  all  trouble  from  you.  If  I  only  could,  dear  ! " 

She  made  Beth  lie  down,  and  covered  her  with  a  shawl, 
petting  her  like  a  baby. 

"  Now,  you  are  not  to  say  a  word,  mind.  Just  give  me 
your  hand.  Such  dainty  fingers  ! "  She  went  on  in  an  under- 
tone to  keep  Beth  quiet :  "  Feeling  fingers,  too  ;  if  I  were  ill, 
or  sad,  I  know  these  could  charm  my  trouble  all  away.  Per- 
sons have  such  different  hands.  Mine,  now ;  they  are  large, 
and  not  a  bit  pretty,  but  I  can  feel,  can  see,  with  them  as  though 
each  finger  had  an  eye.  If  I  were  blind,  I  think  I  could  almost 
tell  the  colour  of  your  little  roseleaf  hands.  Ah,  don't  snatch 
it  away  so,  dear  !  Well,  if  you  insist,  I  shall  just  lay  my  head 
here,  and  we  will  be  quite  still." 

A  few  moments  passed  silently ;  Beth's  eyes  were  closed,  with 
that  strained  look  which  shows  they  have  difficulty  in  closing. 
There  were  heavy  shadows  beneath,  and  her  cheeks  were  pallid. 

While  Evra  was  watching  her  anxiously  the  large  eyes  sud- 
denly opened. 

"  I  think  I  hear  auntie  moving,"  she  said,  half  rising.  "  I 
must  go  and  see  if  I  can  do  anything  for  her." 

"  You  shall  keep  quiet,  my  dear,"  remarked  Evra  firmly. 
"  She  probably  isn't  a  quarter  so  much  used  up  as  you  are.  I 
will  go.  I  will  give  her  some  of  your  flowers." 

Mrs.  Trescott  was  dressing  languidly  with  a  dark  shadow 
on  her  face.  She  paid  little  attention  to  what  Evra  said, 
although  she  took  the  flowers  with  faint  thanks. 


CHAP,  v.]  EELIGION  IN  MUSIC.  43 

"I  am  very  sorry  you  are  in  trouble,"  continued  Evra. 
"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you  throw  off  the  blues  ? 
Come  to  dine  with  us,  will  you?  Mother  will  be  delighted, 
and  it  will  seem  pleasanter  than  for  you  two  to  be  staying  here 
alone.  Will  you  ? " 

"  Does  Beth  want  to  go  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  Will  you,  if  she  does  ?  She  is  used  up 
entirely,  poor  child,"  she  added  in  a  low  tone.  "  She  needs 
something  to  take  her  mind  off." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  what  I  do.  It  makes  little  difference 
where  I  am.  You  must  excuse  my  lack  of  cordiality,  but  you 
see " 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  understand.  And  now,  Lily,"  returning  to  the 
other  room,  "  what  do  you  say  ?  Will  you  take  dinner  with  us  1 
It  will  make  it  easier  for  you,  dearest,"  she  said,  bending  to 
kiss  the  smooth  white  brow. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you ;  I  am  afraid  we  will  be  poor  com- 
pany. But  I  should  like  to  go,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Well,  I  do  mind,  decidedly !  I  would  like  to  have  you 
every  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  and  every  day  of  the  week. 
Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  Your  conscience  is  quieted,  for 
Mrs.  Trescott  has  shut  the  door,  and  you  are  to  let  me  serve 
you.  You  are  to  give  me  the  pleasure  of  doing  something  for 
for  one  I  love." 

"  Sing  to  me,  then." 

Sitting  there  by  Beth's  lounge,  on  a  lowly  tabouret,  the  great 
artist  sang  ballad  after  ballad,  and  lullabies;  and  at  last,  by  some 
secret  attraction,  sacred  songs,  full  of  strength  and  richness. 

Bethesda  was  soon  entranced  beyond  all  thought  of  worry. 
Music  was  a  real  potency  in  her  life,  and  she  was  quickly  attuned 
to  harmony.  Now  she  thought,  with  a  hushed  wonder,  of  how 
intricately  the  hope  of  redeeming  her  father  was  woven  into  all 
her  own  musical  studies.  And  now — now — was  this  all  she 
would  ever  know  of  fatherhood  ? 

The  glorious  voice  soared,  and  lifted  her  on  its  strong  wings. 
She  felt  there  must  be  something  more.  For  is  there  any  art 
which  expresses  religion  so  well  as  music  1  The  craving,  the 
aspiration,  the  harmony,  the  insubstantiality  which  comes  so 
near  being  pure  spirituality, — what  is  more  like  religion  1  A 
keynote  found  and  held  is  necessary  to  all  harmony.  Then 
the  innumerable  chords,  the  notes  so  distant,  yet  the  same  ; 


44  BETHKSDA.  [PART  i. 

the  sounds  that  come,  perhaps,  from  wooden  keys,  and  end — 
who  knows  where  1 — are  combined,  multiplied,  reproduced,  in  a 
true  order,  which  allows  of 'no  discord,  and  which  are  merged 
into  the  eternal  symphony  of  creation,  by  the  sure  triumph  of 
a  great  and  patient  musician. 

Who  with  an  ear  for  music  can  wonder  that  Saint  Cecilia 
should  have  heard  the  continuation  of  her  strains,  and  believed 
they  were  from  heaven  ? 

Evra  looked  up  finally,  and  found  Bethesda  lying  in  the 
twilight,  her  eyes  shining,  and  solemn,  and  tender. 

"  My  darling  !  "  she  exclaimed,  putting  her  hand  upon  her 
almost  as  if  to  hold  her  down. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Beth  softly,  "  your  singing  has  done  me 
much  good.  It  has  taken  all  the  soreness  out  of  my  heart. 
You  are  very  good  to  me." 

"  /  good  to  you  !  Well,  that  is  a  way  !  But  now  I  must  go 
home.  I  have  to  announce  your  arrival  to  mamma.  Come  soon, 
won't  you,  dearest  ? " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"To  depict  such  a  character  is  like  trying  to  catch  a  meteor  and 
make  it  sit  for  its  picture." — MRS.  JAMESON. 

To  fertilise  an  arid  grief,  one  must  strike  deep,  even  to  the  waters  of 
truth,  which  underlie  all  lives  as  streams  underlie  all  lands. 

DURING  the  next  few  days  there  were  many  talks  between 
Mrs.  Trescott  and  Beth,  which  were  both  exciting  and  exhaust- 
ing ;  for  Mrs.  Trescott  was  a  very  tempest  of  emotion,  and  dis- 
solved in  a  torrent  of  tears,  or  fired  into  furious  anger,  according 
as  she  felt  herself  more  abused  or  insulted.  Mrs.  Stanhope  had 
no  right  to  dictate  to  her,  bid  her  stay,  or  call  her  home,  as  if 
she  were  a  puppet !  She  could  judge  for  herself.  She  wouldn't 
go  home  until  she  chose.  The  trail  of  the  serpent  was  over  all 
America  now  ;  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  returning  !  And 
then  tears  again. 

The  truth  was,  that  the  imperceptible  release  of  self-control 
during  the  careless  life  she  had  led  of  late  had  crept  within. 
Superficial  treatment  cures  no  disease ;  it  but  forces  it  inward 
to  work  destruction  on  the  vital  organs.  Her  desire  to  find 
pleasure  in  exterior  things,  so  that  she  might  forget  the  hollow- 


CHAP,  vi.]  NATUEE'S  KETKIBUTION.  45 

ness  beneath,  took  from  her  interior  strength.  Beth,  perhaps, 
had  been  the  one  link  which  had  bound  her  to  her  old  life ;  the 
one,  at  least,  that  she  could  not  ignore.  Yet  Beth  was  the 
reason,  or  the  excuse,  of  their  staying  abroad,  and  when  it  was 
taken  away  Mabel  collapsed,  and  felt  the  cruelty  of  her  own 
emptiness.  Now  came  the  revenge  of  unused  energies,  of 
crushed  capacities ;  now  she  began  to  poignantly  feel  that  there 
was  a  lack  somewhere,  and  she  laid  it  on  the  first  thing  that 
came  to  hand,  and  believed  her  sorrow  all  to  arise  from  the 
unkindness  of  her  friends. 

Numerous  plans  were,  of  course,  canvassed.  Mrs.  Trescott 
unwillingly  admitted  the  necessity  of  returning  home  during  the 
summer,  but  she  set  the  time  in  July,  because  then  the  Stan- 
hopes would  probably  be  at  the  seaside,  and  she  would  feel  more 
"independent,"  where  they  met  on  equal  ground,  than  when 
visiting  at  their  house.  What  the  ultimate  decision  about 
settling  would  be  was  vague  as  a  summer  wind.  Mabel  did  not 
wish  to  give  up  Mr.  Stanhope  as  manager  of  her  aifairs,  for  he 
was  a  man  of  the  strictest  integrity  and  admirable  business 
capacity ;  but  at  the  same  time  she  was  violently  opposed  to 
sacrificing  any  of  her  own  inclinations  in  order  to  retain  him. 
Beth  advised  her  taking  the  money  into  her  own  care,  and 
settling  wherever  she  chose ;  but  Mabel  would  not  listen  to  this. 

"  I  cannot  manage  money  aifairs,  and  you  know  it.  I  should 
lose  it  all.  I  must  have  my  money  safe ;  but  my  letting  him 
do  that  for  me  does  not  mean  that  I  am  going  to  slavishly  sub- 
mit to  whatever  he  dictates.  It  is  ungenerous  to  take  such 
advantage  of  a  woman." 

The  matter  was  a  weary  treadmill  of  reiterated  assertions, 
questions,  and  lamentations ;  and  Beth  was  completely  at  a  loss 
as  to  what  was  best  to  be  done.  In  lieu  of  anything  better, 
she  came  to  look  upon  the  anticipated  arrival  of  M.  d'Isteu 
as  a  relief.  Her  aunt  was  morbid,  and  perhaps  she  would 
recover  her  usual  tone  if  her  thoughts  were  transferred  from 
herself  to  another  for  even  a  short  space. 

Beth's  conscience,  however,  was  not  thoroughly  easy  about 
her  part  in  bringing  to  pass  this  meeting.  She  knew  her  aunt 
was  given  to  imprudent  confidences,  and  Aunt  Agatha  had  said 
when  her  sister  had  first  written  enthusiastically  of  M. 
d'Isten : 

"Mabel  gains  less  knowledge    from  experience  than  any 


46  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

pei-sou  I  ever  knew.  At  her  age  she  ought  to  be  wiser  than 
to  accept  these  Platonic  friendships,  which  may  end  well,  and 
may  not, — probably  not." 

Beth  herself  had  not  been  at  all  prepossessed  in  the  fine 
gentleman's  favour,  yet  now  she  found  herself  almost  glad  he 
was  coming.  The  present  always  in  these  days  seemed  the 
imperative  thing  to  Bethesda. 

Mrs.  Trescott,  on  the  other  hand,  was  half  sorry  she  had 
allowed  him  the  privilege  of  seeing  her,  and  looked  forward  to 
it  as  another  wear  and  tear  on  her  poor  nerves,  to  which  she 
was  hardly  equal. 

"  Supposing  I  tell  you  about  it,  and  let  him  try  and  explain 
to  you,"  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  say ;  but  Beth  stopped  her 
right  there. 

"  I  could  not  think  of  that,  Aunt  Mabel ;  you  know  it  would 
not  be  right.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  going  down  to  Evra's 
to-night." 

"Yousha'n't  do  any  such  thing!"  asserted  Mrs.  Trescott 
imperiously. 

"  Wait  a  minute  until  I  tell  you  why,"  said  Beth,  smiling  a 
little  at  the  sudden  explosion.  "If  you  are  going  to  have  an 
explanation  with  M.  d'Isten,  I  would  be  entirely  de  trop,  and  it 
would  be  awkward  for  all  if  I  went  away  then." 

"  You  won't  be  de  trop.  I  told  him  at  the  very  beginning 
of  our  acquaintance  that  I  didn't  choose  to  have  secrets.  We 
can  speak  as  easily  before  you  as  not.  He  will  think  you  know 
all." 

"  But  since  you  have  chosen  to  keep  me  in  ignorance,"  said 
Beth  quietly,  "  I  cannot  consent  to  play  a  false  part.  I  know 
nothing  about  your  misunderstanding *-" 

"  It  wasn't  a  misunderstanding ;  it  was  an  insult ! " 

"  And  you  are  going  to  receive  him,  Aunt  Mabel !  How- 
ever, as  I  was  saying,  I  know  nothing  about  it,  and  you  might 
speak  easily  before  me,  but  he  would  not.  Since  you  are  going 
to  allow  him  to  explain,  it  is  mere  justice  to  let  him  have  a  fair 
opportunity.  He  would  know  that  I  was  criticising  him,  and 
it  could  not  help  but  be  awkward." 

"  Suppose  you  consider  my  feelings  a  little,  instead  of  his 
altogether,"  exclaimed  Mabel  testily. 

Beth's  eyes  flashed,  but  she  only  said  : 

"So  I  do,  in  going  away." 


CIIAP.  VI.]  OFFENDED.  47 

"  You  entirely  mistake  what  the  explanation  will  be,"  said 
Mrs.  Trescott  in  a  less  offensive  tone,  as  she  saw  Beth's  resolu- 
tion. "  There  isn't  a  chance  of  his  justifying  himself,  or  mak- 
ing an  adequate  apology.  At  the  most  it  will  only  be  that  we  shall 
not  remain  angry, — although  I  don't  even  see  how  that  can  be." 

"  I  will  come  back  early,  so  as  to  relieve  you  if  you  need 
it." 

"  Then  you  are  set  upon  going  to  Evra's  V 

"  If  you  please ;  for  the  first  hour  or  so." 

"You  always  have  your  own  way,"  said  Mabel,  in  a 
martyred  tone.  "  Of  course  you  will  do  as  you  like." 

Beth  found  it  very  hard  to  do  anything  which  would  please 
her  aunt  these  days.  The  only  way  she  could  hold  herself  at 
all  upright  was  to  think  well  before  she  spoke,  and  then  not 
flinch  from  her  decision.  Her  instinct  was  to  veer  with  the 
desires  of  those  around  her,  but  it  is  impossible  for  a  character  of 
any  consistency  to  adapt  itself  to  the  exigencies  of  a  radically 
inconsistent  nature ;  and  this  Beth  was  discovering. 

Mrs.  Trescott  was  looking  particularly  handsome  when  Beth 
left  her.  She  had  gone  over  the  causes  for  offence  which  this 
man  had  given  her  until  her  anger  was  newly  aroused,  and  she 
was  prepared  to  meet  him  with  biting  frigidity.  There  was  an 
extra  pride  in  her  carriage,  and  a  brilliance  to  her  eyes,  which 
made  Beth  remember  that  one  of  her  admirers  had  said  he 
always  made  it  a  point  to  anger  her  occasionally,  for  the  pleasure 
of  studying  her  in  a  fury.  Beth  could  recall  twenty  times  at 
least,  when  just  such  a  scene  as  this  had  been  prepared  because 
of  some  trifling  circumstance  which  Mrs.  Trescott  had  construed 
into  a  lack  of  respect.  This  was  her  most  sensitive  point. 
With  tact,  and  constant  remembrance  of  this  peculiarity,  one 
could  coax  or  lead  her  unawares  further  than  she  knew ;  but, 
touch  her  sense  of  self-esteem  by  carelessness  or  intent,  and  she 
was  instantly  a-fire  to  avenge  the  insult.  Only  through  appeal- 
ing to  her  strong  emotional  temperament  could  such  an  error  be 
retrieved,  and  even  then  the  offence  was  not  extinguished,  but 
rather  smouldered,  ready  to  leap  into  flame  if  the  slightest  fault 
uncovered  it. 

Beth  found  Evra  alone,  and  was  greeted  with  the  utmost 
delight. 

"  I  shall  always  like  this  stranger  for  sending  you  to  me 
this  evening,"  she  said.  "  Mamma  has  gone  off  to  take  a  nap, 


48  BETIIESDA.  [PART  I. 

and  we  can  have  the  cosiest  time !  But  where  did  the  man 
drop  from?  Paris  ?  Well,  they  Avill  have  a  fine  time  making  up 
their  quarrel  I  don't  think  anybody  would  find  it  easy  to 
approach  Mrs.  Trescott  when  she  was  vexed.  And  one  never  is 
quite  sure  of  her.  There  are  few  one  is.  You  are  a  rare  pearl ; 
I  would  trust  you  with  anything,  and  know  you  would  be  my 
friend,  sure  and  true,  through  it  all." 

"  If  I  once  believe,  it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  mistrust,"  replied 
Beth  gravely.  "  I  think  you  can  rely  upon  me." 

"  And  I  know  I  can." 

Evra  was  in  an  unusually  entertaining  mood  that  evening, 
and  diversified  her  stories  with  snatches  of  new  songs,  which 
made  the  time  fly.  At  last,  to  Beth's  dismay,  she  heard  the 
clock  strike  half-past  ten.  She  sprang  up,  really  annoyed  at  her 
thoughtlessness. 

"  I  said  I  would  be  home  early,"  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  too 
bad ;  I  ought  not  to  have  stayed  so  long." 

She  threw  her  Algerian  wrap  around  her  as  she  spoke,  and 
drew  the  hood  over  her  head. 

"You  look  like  a  white  penitent  in  that,"  said  Evra. 
"  Don't  grieve,  dear.  Mrs.  Trescott  has  had  her  time  occupied, 
I  venture." 

"  Perhaps,  but  I  ought  not  to  have  forgotten,"  replied  Beth, 
in  a  tone  that  made  Evra  exclaim  : 

"  Well,  you  are  an  exemplary  child,  and  it  shows  your  good 
heart,  so  I  won't  say  a  word  more.  Good-night." 

Beth  told  the  coachman  to  drive  fast,  and  when  they  reached 
the  house  she  ran  upstairs  swiftly,  but  stopped  a  moment  at 
the  door  to  regain  her  breath. 

Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  within,  and,  fearful  that  the 
stranger  had  gone,  which  would  make  her  delinquency  seem 
worse,  she  pushed  open  the  door  quickly. 

A  tall  man,  with  a  proud,  dark  head,  was  leaning  against 
the  mantel,  half-facing  her.  His  features  were  evidently  under 
the  contre-coup  of  some  strong  emotion.  His  eyes  were  resting 
on  Mrs.  Trescott,  who  sat  in  a  low  chair,  her  face  buried  in  her 
handkerchief. 

Every  detail  of  the  scene  photographed  itself  as  with  flame 
on  Beth's  mind.  She  stood  still  a  second  in  complete  surprise. 
They  apparently  had  not  heard  her  enter,  and  the  first  instinct 
was  to  slip  away  unseen.  Her  second,  which  she  followed,  to 


CHAP.  VI.]  MEETING.  49 

shut  the  door  with  sufficient  noise  to  attract  attention,  and  to 
walk  quickly  across  the  long  room. 

M.  d'Isten  started,  and  his  attitude,  his  expression,  his 
whole  being  seemed  to  change.  He  was  only  a  deferential 
stranger  by  the  time  Beth  reached  her  aunt.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  Mabel's  shoulder  and  said  anxiously  : 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  auntie  ? " 

Mrs.  Trescott  glanced  up  with  a  flash  of  excitement  in  her 
eyes  which  soon  dried  their  moisture. 

"  Oh,  Beth  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  Kene"  is  my  good  friend  again, 
my  dear  friend !  He  must  be  yours  too.  Greet  him  warmly, 
for  I  admire  him " 

Her  voice  trembled  and  broke.  She  drew  Beth  forward  to 
put  her  hand  in  his.  The  girl  was  completely  mystified,  and 
held  back  a  minute.  M.  d'Isten  stood  by,  making  no  effort 
to  deprecate  the  warm  words;  but,  looking  up,  Beth  saw  his 
face  was  lit  by  an  expression  of  gratitude  both  manly  and 
sincere. 

She  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  My  aunt's  friends  will,  I  hope,  always  be  mine,"  she  said. 

He  bowed  profoundly,  just  touched  her  hand,  and  imme- 
diately took  up  his  hat  and  gloves. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  said  Mabel.  "  I  have  not  even  offered 
you  a  pinch  of  salt.  We  must  ratify  our  compact,  as  do  your 
mother's  race,  or  it  may  not  hold." 

"  Then  I  shall  surely  stay,"  he  replied,  with  that  indescrib- 
able elegance  of  pronunciation  which  so  fascinates  those  who 
can  appreciate  it. 

Beth  slipped  away,  to  lay  aside  her  snowy  wrappings  and 
to  order  cake  and  wine.  She  did  not  return  until  the  servant 
entered  with  the  tray.  Mrs.  Trescott  and  M.  d'Isten  seemed 
to  have  recovered  something  of  their  usual  manner,  although 
the  gentleman  was  extremely  quiet,  and  Mrs.  Trescott  never 
looked  at  him  without  an  eloquent  reminiscence  in  her  eyes. 

"  Beth  shall  be  our  Hebe,"  she  said ;  "  she  shall  pour  out 
the  wine,  and  we  will  forget  everything,  to  drink  to  our  long 
friendship." 

Beth  obeyed  her  aunt  in  silence.  The  health  was  drunk 
solemnly,  Beth  taking  a  sip  from  her  glass  while  watching  the 
others.  She  was  employing  all  her  powers  of  discernment  in 
quick  scrutiny  of  this  man. 

E 


50  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

He  was  pre-eminently  aristocratic ;  his  manners  were  not 
only  courteous,  but  courtly.  He  appeared  reticent,  in  spite  of 
a  frank  grace  which  was  very  attractive.  Everything  about  him 
was  fine,  yet  Beth  had  to  acknowledge  that  there  was  no  lack, 
of  strength.  The  lower  part  of  his  face  was  less  developed  than 
the  upper  portion,  which  was  full  of  power,  but  the  line  from 
ear  to  chin  was  excellent ;  decisive  and  lenient  at  the  same  time. 
As  for  the.  eyes,  Beth  only  knew  they  were  dark,  for  whenever 
she  met  them  hers  fell  instantly.  He  was  also  studying  her 
with  close,  if  unobtrusive  attention. 

It  seemed  to  result  in  little,  however,  for  when  he  left 
there  was  no  less  coldness  in  her  manner,  and  only  a  little 
added  deference  in  his.  He  responded  with  deep  appreciation  to 
Mrs.  Trescott's  earnest  wishes  for  a  speedy  return  from  Rome, 
and  bent  over  her  hand  as  if  kindness  had  been  rare  to  him. 

"  You  must  return  before  it  is  too  warm,"  she  said,  "  so 
that  we  can  show  you  the  sights.  Beth  and  I  know,  all  the 
places  worth  seeing,  and  will  gladly  be  your  ciceroni;  won't  we, 
Beth  1" 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  do  take  board  here  ;  it  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  have 
friends  in  the  same  house,"  continued  Mrs.  Trescott,  who 
seemed  only  anxious  to  atone  for  past  misunderstandings,  and 
to  prove  that  they  were  all  forgotten. 

"  What  can  it  mean?"  thought  Beth.  This  entire  reversal 
of  circumstances  bewildered  her.  It  could  only  be  explained  by 
the  consistency  of  inconsistency,  as  Mrs.  Jameson  terms  such  a 
character  as  Mabel  Trescott's. 

When  the  door  closed  Mrs.  Trescott  turned  to  Beth  as  if 
to  claim  her  admiration ;  but,  seeing  the  lack  of  comprehension 
and  the  astonishment  which  Beth  now  allowed  her  face  to 
express,  she  turned  away,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
thinking. 

"  So  the  explanation  was  satisfactory1?"  said  Beth  at  last. 

Before  Mabel  answered  she  put  her  arm  around  her  niece 
and  drew  her  into  the  promenade.  They  took  a  few  turns  in 
silence. 

"Well?"  said  Beth  presently.  This  lack  of  speech  was  as 
remarkable  as  the  rest  of  it. 

"  I  am  trying  to  think  what  I  can  tell  you.  Most  that  he 
said  was  in  confidence." 


CHAP,  vi.]  A  MYSTERY.  51 

"  Indeed ! "  remarked  Beth,  a  trifle  satirically. 

"  If  you  had  been  here  it  might  have  been But  no ; 

he  would  not  have  spoken  then.  Oh,  Beth  !"  she  cried,  stopping 
suddenly,  "  when  I  think  of  what  he  has  done,  what  he  is  doing 
now,  to-night,  I  can  unhesitatingly  assert  that  his  conduct  is 
a  lifelong  act  of  self-control  and  magnanimity  unequalled  in 
history  OP  fiction !" 

Her  eyes  blazed  superbly,  and  she  stood  erect,  as  if  proud 
to  be  such  a  man's  friend. 

"  That  is  high  praise,"  said  Beth.  This  was  all  mysterious, 
and  her  reason  desired  something  more  solid  to  satisfy  it.  Pre- 
sently she  asked : 

"  You  are  going  to  be  friends  again,  now  V 

"  Of  course  we  are  !  The  best  of  friends  !  I  admire  him 
more  than  any  man  I  ever  knew.  He  is  so  true,  and  pure,  and 
unselfish.  You  know  nothing  about  it,  Beth." 

"  I  know  I  do  not.  If  I  am  to  meet  him,  can't  you  tell 
me  how  this  great  change  in  your  opinions  came  about  ?  Did 
he  have  any  sufficient  apology  for  what  you  called,  only  this 
afternoon,  an  insult  1" 

11 1  can't  explain  that  without  your  knowing  the  whole. 
He  could  not  himself.  There  was  no  explanation  ;  he  did  not 
attempt  to  make  any.  But  he  begged  my  forgiveness  with  a 
sincerity  and  humility  which  no  one  could  withstand.  When 
he  regretted  his  fault  I  could  do  nothing  but  forgive,  could  I?" 

"  I  suppose  not.  But  it  was  not  this  that  made  you  so 
extremely  cordial  1 " 

"  No ;  that  was  because  of  what  he  told  me  afterwards.  I 
said,  '  We  will  let  bygones  be  bygones,'  but  I  could  not  help 
feeling  formal  with  him,  and  that  hurt  him.  Finally  he  said, 
as  if  he  had  been  thinking  of  it  a  long  time,  '  I  must  tell  you 
what  may  palliate  my  error.  I  cannot  go  away  feeling  that 
the  friendship  you  gave  me  has  become  cold ;'  and  then  he 
asked  me  to  consider  what  he  might  tell  me  as  a  sacred  con- 
fidence. I  said,  '  I  never  make  promises,'  but  he  trusted  me, 
and  told  me.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you ! " 

Beth  could  not  imagine  a  recital  which  would  cause  such  a 
change,  and  she  felt  that  her  aunt  was  too  prejudiced  in  the 
man's  favour  now,  as  she  had  before  been  against  him,  to  be 
entirely  trustworthy. 

"I  think  I  can  tell  you  this  much,"  resumed  Mabel.     "It 


52  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

is  relative  to  his  wife,  and  lie  has  acted  in  the  noblest,  the 
most  disinterested  way  I  ever  could  imagine." 

She  stopped,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  girl's  arm  to  give  full 
effect  to  her  next  words. 

"  Beth,  you  know  I  am  generally  on  the  woman's  side,  and 
that  I  have  high  ideas  of  what  a  man's  duties  are  to  his  wife. 
Well,  I  tell  you — I — that  this  man  is  an  ideal  husband." 

"  He  told  you  this  himself  1"  suggested  the  girl  timidly. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know,"  was  the  impatient  reply ;  "  but  it  is 
not  from  words  I  judge,  only  acts.  He  tried  to  keep  himself 
in  the  background  as  much  as  he  could.  And,  Beth,  there 
was  the  ring  of  truth  in  it  all ;  you  could  not  mistrust  him. 
Why,  his  face  worked  so  with  emotion  that,  after  the  first 
glance,  I  dared  not  look  at  him  !  It  is  the  only  time  he  has 
ever  mentioned  it,  and  you  would  have  been  overcome  by  the 
sound  of  suppressed  suffering  in  his  voice,  just  as  I  was." 

Beth  was  considerably  touched  by  her  aunt's  emotion  at  least. 

"  Why  did  he  come  here  1"  she  said  finally.  "  Is  he  going 
to  stay  in  Italy  long  ?" 

"  Why  did  he  come  ?  To  consummate  his  act  of  sacrifice  !" 
Her  eyes  fired  anew  at  the  thought.  "  He  is  going  now  to 
Rome  to  do  what  no  other  man  would  dream  of  doing.  I  can 
only  admire  him  while  I  regret  it.  He  told  me  it  all.  He 
has  never  had  any  one  in  whom  to  confide,  and  this  was 

almost Why  !  it  was  like  a  dying  confession.  It  is  a 

question  of  life  and  death  to  him  ! " 

The  full  lips  began  to  tremble,  and  another  outburst  was 
imminent.  Beth  was  startled  by  the  last  words,  but  said 
lightly : 

"  Take  care,  auntie ;  you  will  prejudice  me  against  your 
friend  again.  I  shall  hate  him  if  he  is  going  to  make  you  feel 
badly." 

"  It  isn't  that  so  much,"  said  Mabel  somewhat  incoherently, 
"  as  because  I  was  all  used  up  before,  with — with  Agatha's 
letter.  It  seems  as  if  love — never  did — do  any — good." 

Beth  passed  her  hand  caressingly  over  the  dark  curls. 

"Whatever  this  M.  d'Isten  may  have  had  in  his  life, 
auntie  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  have  at  least  one  heart  which  is 
devoted  to  you.  Isn't  that  something  ?" 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  said  Mabel,  trying  to  recover  herself.  "  You 
are  all  I  have,  Beth,  but  you  are  a  great  deal  more  than  he  is." 


CIIAP.  vii.]  ANXIETY.  53 

Beth  went  away  in  a  few  moments  to  her  little  study.  Her 
mind  was  in  coldfusion  among  all  these  tumultuous  ideas,  and 
her  predominating  thought  was,  that  her  dear  auntie  was  pre- 
paring sorrow  for  herself. 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?"  she  thought  helplessly. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

"  Every  spendthrift  to  passion  is  debtor  to  thought." 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 

FOR  the  next  few  weeks  Beth  worried  constantly  about  her 
aunt.  She  did  not  seem  to  recover  from  what  had  begun  with 
her  sister's  letter  any  more  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  than 
she  had  the  first  day.  The  influence  of  M.  d'Isten's  visit 
had  lasted  only  while  he  was  present.  She  had  fallen  again 
into  abject  depression. 

The  intangibility  of  the  affair  was  what  routed  every  idea 
for  bettering  matters.  Beth  suggested  that  they  should  take  a 
little  trip  through  Northern  Italy.  No,  Mabel  would  not  hear 
of  it.  She  would  not  deprive  Beth  of  her  lessons,  at  which, 
now,  she  had  her  last  chance.  It  was  a  thing  she  must 
endure,  she  said,  and  one  place  was  the  same  as  another. 

Beth  coaxed  her  out  on  excursions  through  the  beautiful 
spring  land,  with  the  fragrant  air  blowing  in  their  faces,  and 
the  exquisite  sky  overhead.  Mabel  would  seem  to  enjoy  it 
while  she  was  out,  but  came  home  to  cry  in  a  doleful  manner, 
which  made  Beth  feel  hopeless. 

"  She  must  be  going  to  have  the  fever,"  she  said  one  day 
to  Evra,  in  an  extra  hour  of  anxiety. 

"  If  she  does,  mamma  and  I  will  take  care  of  her ;  but  it's 
much  more  likely  you  will  have  it,  my  pet,  with  those  great 
circles  growing  under  your  eyes,  and  actual  hollows  coming  in 
your  cheeks.  Do  take  care  of  yourself,  darling." 

"  I  only  want  to  take  care  of  auntie,"  replied  the  girl. 

But  still,  finding  herself  impotent  to  do  anything  actively 
for  her  aunt,  who  preferred  solitude,  and  shut  herself  into  her 
room  many  hours  alone,  Beth  allowed  herself  to  be  coaxed 
away  oftener  than  she  should  have  done.  This,  again,  made 


54  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

Mabel  feel  neglected,  and  so  the  trouble  grew  and  grew,  like  a 
snowball  rolled  over  innumerable  times. 

Mingled  with  this,  and  increasing  it,  was  the  state  of 
affairs  with  Monsieur  d'Isten. 

At  first  Mabel  had  often  talked  of  him,  and  would  read 
aloud  parts  of  the  letters  which  she  received  frequently.  They 
aroused  Beth's  interest  by  their  style  and  language,  but  she 
felt  the  constraint  of  the  secret  between  him  and  her  aunt, 
and  being  obliged  to  take  everything  on  trust  where  her 
disapproval  had  been  excited  and  not  allayed,  could  only  be  a 
spectator  of  the  friendship.  This  Mrs.  Trescott  felt  was  cold 
and  selfish,  and  gradually  she  came  to  not  mentioning  him, 
except  when  something  directly  occurred  to  introduce  his 
name. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  there  had  ever  been  any  prolonged 
misunderstanding  between  Beth  and  her  aunt,  and  they  both 
felt  it  keenly.  Each  made  valiant  efforts  to  overcome  it,  but, 
after  the  first  expansion,  the  result  was  always  the  same,  for 
there  was  a  mutual  disapproval,  and  neither  could  give  way. 
Now  came  the  recognition  that  their  principles  were  opposed. 
Mabel  laid  it  all.  to  Agatha's  influence,  and  Beth  knew  it  was 
the  growth  of  her  own  individuality,  and  the  fact  that  she  held 
opinions  which  she  would  not  allow  to  be  melted  into  oil  to 
make  the  wheels  of  life  run  smoothly. 

When  the  answer  came  to  Mrs.  Trescott's  passionate  epistle, 
which  she  had,  of  course,  sent,  it  showed  the  corresponding 
disappointment  and  sorrow  on  the  other  side ;  and  Mrs.  Tres- 
cott asserted  that  the  sisterly  bond  which  had  united  Agatha 
to  her  was  broken  for  ever,  and  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
done  but  to  accept  the  fact  as  an  irreparable  loss.  If  she 
could  have  had  something  to  fight  she  would  have  grown 
strong  with  the  necessity,  but  this  sudden  collapse  of  her 
past,  present,  and  future,  as  she  put  it,  left  her  nothing  but 
despair. 

"  You  must  have  patience  with  me,  and  let  me  adjust  my- 
self to  circumstances  as  best  I  can,"  she  would  say  to  Beth 
drearily.  "  It  is  hard,  hard,  any  way." 

"  The  only  way  is  to  have  them  meet,  and  meantime  give 
auntie  something  to  do,"  thought  the  girl  at  last ;  and  she 
determined  to  take  the  reins  from  her  aunt's  listless  hands,  and 
use  all  her  influence  to  leave  Florence,  and  start  towards  home 


CHAP,  vn.]  IDOLAfTKY.  65 

earlier.  In  Paris  there  would  be  the  interminable  shopping, 
and  this  would  keep  her  aunt  busy,  and  occupy  her  mind. 

Whether  Mrs.  Trescott  felt  the  relief  of  another's  deciding 
for  her,  or  saw  the  advisability  of  Beth's  plan,  and  was  glad  of 
change,  she  yielded  with  little  difficulty,  and  stipulated  only 
that  they  should  be  in  no  hurry.  She  was  willing  to  please 
Beth,  but  she  could  not  get  in  a  flurry  ;  that  would  only  be  to 
make  her  ill. 

Evra  meantime  felt  somewhat  hurt  that  her  Lily  did 
not  respond  more  adequately  to  her  devotion.  Her  love  for 
Bethesda,  who  represented  to  her  all  that  was  uplifting,  calm, 
and  pure,  was  absorbing  in  its  intensity.  She  wished  the  girl 
to  feel  and  call  her  dearest,  but  Beth  could  not  allow  her  to 
deceive  herself  with  the  thought  an  instant. 

"  My  sister  is  the  nearest  to  me,"  she  said  gravely.  "  I 
don't  think  I  can  love  any  one  better  than  I  do  her.  And 
then  there  is  Aunt  Mabel  and  Aunt  Agatha.  But,  Evra,  you 
are  the  dearest  friend  I  have." 

"  Friend !  "  exclaimed  the  passionate  woman,  putting  un- 
utterable meanings  in  the  word,  and  looking  down  on  Beth  from 
her  superior  height  almost  scornfully.  But  only  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  would  fall  at  her  feet  and  cry  out,  as  if  in  actual 
pain: 

"  Be  my  friend,  Lily !  Don't  give  me  up !  I  can't  lose 
you.  My  heart  ached  for  you  for  years.  Be  my  dear,  wise, 
faithful  friend." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Beth,  distressed.  "  You  know  you  can 
trust  me,  Evra,  to  be  always  your  friend." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  sighed  the  artist.  "  I  will  try  to 
be  content." 

All  this  pained  Beth.  She  felt  the  weight  of  being  loved 
unwisely,  if  not  too  well.  She  was  coming  to  a  vague  concep- 
tion of  the  difference  between  being  idolised  and  idealised. 
One  is  slavery,  the  other  freedom.  One  says  :  What  you  are 
now  is  to  me  perfection ;  I  never  wish  you  to  alter  or  move. 
Let  me  bow  down  before  you.  This  incases  a  living  being  in 
stone,  and  death  inevitably  ensues.  The  other  says  :  I  see 
great  possibilities  in  you.  You  have  the  strength  to  develop 
them  to  their  utmost.  I  trust  in  you.  This  gives  the  spirit 
wings,  and  the  fullest  life  is  the  result. 

Beth  was  feeling  the  restriction  of  her  pedestal.     It  made 


56  BETHESDA.  '  [PART  i. 

a  very  narrow  platform.  She  was  afraid  to  stir  lest  she  should 
fall  off,  and  to  stand  still  was  inimical  to  all  growth.  What 
could  she  do  1 

At  last  one  day  in  April  Beth  came  home  from  a  ride  with 
Evra,  in  which  her  aunt  had  not  cared  to  join.  She  heard  Mrs. 
Trescott's  voice,  in  unusually  gay  tones,  evidently  conversing 
with  callers.  The  door  was  open,  however,  and  she  could  not 
slip  by  unperceived  ;  so  in  her  habit,  with  her  hair  considerably 
shaken  by  a  brisk  eanter,  she  entered,  to  find  herself  confronted 
by  that  person  before  whom  she  someway  especially  wished  to 
appear  formal — Monsieur  d'Isten. 

He  rose  instantly,  becoming  grave  as  he  did  so ;  but  Mabel 
exclaimed,  laughing : 

"  Oh,  you  are  caught,  Beth !  Never  mind.  Our  good 
friend  has  taken  us  by  surprise,  hasn't  he  ? " 

By  this  time  Bethesda  had  recovered  her  self-possession, 
and  greeted  the  guest  with  quiet  stateliness.  In  any  guise  she 
could  appear  both  beautiful  and  dignified.  Seating  herself  at 
some  little  distance  she  thought  she  would  excuse  herself  in  as 
short  a  time  as  politeness  would  allow ;  but  during  that  period 
she  discovered  that  her  aunt  was  quite  changed  from  her  late 
self,  and  was  brighter  than  she  had  seen  her  in  a  long  time. 
M.  d'Isten  also  seemed  to  have  lost  all  his  seriousness  in  Rome, 
and  there  was  a  continual  play  of  words  between  the  two  which 
was  pleasant  to  witness.  Beth  had  a  keen  appreciation  of  wit, 
and  found  her  severity  melting  under  these  clever  hits. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  just  what  auntie  needs,"  she  thought. 
"Some  one  she  likes,  and  yet  who  is  new  to  her.  He  may 
entertain  her,  and  while  they  are  going  around  Florence  to- 
gether I  can  spend  these  days  freely  with  Evra." 

And  she  went  into  luncheon  more  cordially  disposed  than 
she  had  cared  to  be  before. 

The  conversation  was  about  Eome,  its  wonders  and  its  con- 
trasts of  ancient -and  modern  life;  not  a  new  subject  by  any 
means,  but  Beth  found  herself  often  surprised  by  some  quiet 
originality,  some  sure  criticism,  or  a  turn  of  thought  which  pre- 
sented the  matter  in  a  broader  light,  and  connected  it  subtly 
with  many  diverging  facts. 

Mrs.  Trescott  seemed  delighted. 

"  Stay  a  fortnight,"  she  said  to  her  entertaining  friend, 
"and  we  will  have  some  charming  days.  This  is  just  the 


CHAP.  VII.]  A  CASTLE.  57 

time  to  see  Florence.  There  is  nothing  so  lovely  as  an  Italian 
spring,  is  there  1 " 

11 1  can  hardly  admit  that,"  answered  M.  d'Isten.  "  My 
own  land  is  in  the  south,  you  know,  and  what  is  familiar  is 
always  most  beautiful.  And  we  have  the  sea." 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  had  forgotten  your  devotion  to  that.  Beth 
can  sympathise  with  you  there.  She  finds  nothing  so  grand  as 
the  ocean." 

"Mademoiselle  is  surely  right,"  he  said,  glancing  at  her 
with  a  veiled  curiosity.  This  reserved  maiden  was  a  new  study 
to  him.  "If  you  like  the  sea,  mademoiselle,"  he  added,  ad- 
dressing her  directly  for  almost  the  first  time,  "  I  am  convinced 
you  would  find  N charming." 

"Did  you  say  it  was  in  the  Pyrenees,  monsieur?"  she 
asked  with  interest.  "  I  have  always  wished  to  travel  there." 

"It  is  the  most  beautiful  corner  in  the  whole  range,"  he 
replied,  his  face  lighting.  "  Imagine  a  valley  opening  at  the 
south  to  the  sea,  with  lofty  peaks  rising  at  the  north  and  east, 
and  a  long  spur  extending  into  the  water  at  the  west.  It  ends 
in  an  abrupt  cliff,  where  the  waves  always  dash  high,  even  in 
the  calmest  weather.  That  is  where  I  intend  to  build  my 
castle,"  he  added,  turning  with  a  smile  to  Mrs.  Trescott. 

"  Yes  1  Well  I  hope  you  will  finish  it  by  the  time  we  go 
there.  We  certainly  must  some  day.  And  now  let  us  plan 
about  what  we  are  going  to  do  here." 

Beth  noticed  the  slight  shade  that  fell  again  upon  M. 
d'Isten's  face. 

"  Why  doesn't  auntie  lend  •  herself  to  his  mood  ? "  she 
wondered.  "  He  must  be  very  fond  of  his  home,  and  that  is 
always  a  good  trait  in  a  man;  but  I  thought  he  was  from 
Algeria." 

At  this  point  she  was  appealed  to  by  her  aunt. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  too  tired,  Beth,  to  go  out  this  after- 
noon 1  So  we  will  put  off  our  drive  to  Fiesole  until  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  don't  wait  for  me,"  said  Beth  quickly.  "  This  will 
be  a  lovely  afternoon  for  the  view.  You  had  better  not  post- 
pone it." 

"  Indeed  we  will.  It  would  not  be  half  the  pleasure  with- 
out her,  would  it,  Kene'  ? " 

"Mademoiselle's  presence  would  necessarily  enhance  our 
pleasure ;  but  she  may  not  desire " 


58  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  She  is  always  delighted  with  driving,"  interrupted  Mabel. 
"And  she  can  tell  you  a  great  deal  more  than  I  can  about  all 
the  things  you  will  see.  So  we  will  consider  it  settled  for  to- 
morrow at  three,  if  convenient  to  you." 

"  I  am  entirely  at  your  command,"  said  M.  d'Isten ;  and 
Beth  acquiesced  silently. 

She  was  not  going  to  be  tied  to  entertaining  this  man, 
however,  she  told  herself.  She  wanted  to  be  with  Evra ;  and 
he  was  her  aunt's  friend,  not  hers.  Besides,  she  was  not 
attracted  by  him.  He  was  a  refined  and  cultured  m*n,  un- 
doubtedly ;  he  might  be  wonderfully  noble — she  knew  nothing 
about  that ;  but  there  was  something  hard  about  his  eyes — it 
had  disappeared  for  an  instant  when  he  mentioned  his  home — 
and  he  was  self-conscious,  she  thought,  in  his  very  self-forgetful- 
ness,  as  if  that  were  a  duty  and  not  a  spontaneous  impulse. 
He  lacked  fire,  she  decided,  and  she  never  did  like  a  man  who 
failed  in  warmth. 

At  this  juncture  she  glanced  up,  but  met  his  eyes,  and  hers 
instantly  fell. 

What  flash  of  comprehension  was  there  in  his  face  1  Had 
he  read  her  thoughts  1  In  any  case  it  rebuked  her.  Was  her 
penetration  so  sure  that  she  should  condemn  a  man  on  that 
hasty  proof  alone  ?  There  was  no  call  for  her  to  plunge  into 
the  depths  and  discover  all  the  hidden  meanings  of  his  physi- 
ognomy. He  was  her  aunt's  friend,  and  all  she  had  to  do  with 
him  was  to  be  grateful  for  his  rescuing  Mrs.  Trescott  from  the 
slough  of  despond. 

When  he  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out  she  smiled 
up  at  him  and  said  : 

"  My  aunt  is  already  brightened  by  your  coming.  She  has 
not  been  well,  and  the  pleasure  of  showing  Florence  to  you  will 
benefit  her,  I  am  sure." 

"  She  will  confer  upon  me  a  great  favour  if  she  can  make 
me  of  use.  I  thank  you  for  suggesting  the  possibility, 
mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  with  a  politeness  as  impersonal  as 
her  own. 

During  the  next  few  days  Mrs  Trescott  thought  of  nothing, 
to  all  appearance,  but  to  feter  M.  d'Isten. 

"  He  has  had  such  a  sad  life,"  she  would  say  to  Beth,  "  that 
I  want  to  make  this  time  as  pleasant  as  possible  to  him — a 
kind  of  oasis  in  his  life." 


CHAP,  vn.]  AN  ANTIPATHY.  59 

"  Does  she  never  think,"  remarked  Evra  one  day,  when 
Mabel  had  left  them  with  some  such  words  still  echoing  in  the 
air,  "  that  she  may  make  it  too  pleasant  for  him  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  there  can  be  any  danger  of  that,"  replied 
Beth  gravely.  "Aunt  Mabel  is  always  most  sensitive  to  any 
such  possibility.  You  see  she  is  nine  years  older  than  he  is." 

"  That  may  be ;  but  it  is  none  of  my  business.  And  you, 
certainly,  are  not  over  cordial  to  him.  Don't  you  like  him, 
dear?" 

"  I  hardly  know  him,"  said  Beth,  a  little  troubled.  "  He 
seems  to  be  more  pleasant  than  ordinary  acquaintances  one 
makes,  and  yet " 

"I  understand.  Don't  let's  bother  over  him  any  more. 
You  and  I  are  enough  for  one  another,  aren't  we,  sweet  ? " 

The  truth  was,  they  were  too  much  absorbed  in  one  another. 
It  annoyed  Mrs.  Trescott. 

"You  don't  pay  any  attention  to  my  friend,"  she  cried 
one  day,  in  a  fit  of  exasperation.  "  I  am  much  more  cordial 
with  your  friend  than  you  are  with  mine.  How  would  you 
like  it  if  I  avoided  Evra,  and  were  cold  with  her,  as  you  are 
with  M.  d'Isten  1  You  would  think  me  very  unkind  and  hard." 

"  Excuse  me,  Aunt  Mabel,  but  it  is  not  the  same.  You  like 
Evra  for  herself;  I  do  not  like  M.  d'Isten." 

"  Why  don't  you  like  him,  then  ?  It  is  mere  prejudice,  of 
which  you  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

"  It  is  a  prejudice  you  gave  me." 

"  /  have  wiped  all  that  out.  /  have  forgiven  it.  What 
is  it  to  you  ?  You  don't  even  know  what  was  the  matter.  If 
you  met  him  in  an  ordinary  way  you  would  have  to  take  him 
on  trust — as  I  did  when  I  first  met  him." 

"  Then  my  aunt  would  not  have  told  me  he  had  '  insulted' 
her." 

1 '  Don't  say  that !  It  is  altogether  too  strong  a  word  any 
way.  And  since  you  know  nothing  about  it,  and  I  do,  and 
I  know  him  and  his  whole  life,  can't  you  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  he  is  noble  and  well  worthy  any  woman's  friendship  1 " 

"  I  can  take  him  as  your  friend  on  that,  which  is  what  I 
have  tried  to  do." 

"  It  is  only  as  my  friend  that  I  wish  you  to  take  him ;  but, 
instead  of  being  cordial  for  my  sake,  you  treat  him  more  coldly 
than  you  do  any  one  else." 


60  BETIIESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to.  I  am  sorry  if  I  appeared  to  do  so. 
I  am  ill  at  ease  with  him ;  he  does  not  appeal  to  me  at  all ;  I 
suppose  that  is  the  trouble." 

"  At  any  rate,  you  ni^ht  treat  him  with  ordinary  courtesy," 
exclaimed  Mabel. 

"  I  think  even  he,  who  is  certainly  most  courteous,  would 
say  I  am  never  otherwise,"  replied  Bethesda  proudly,  and  went 
away. 

She  took  herself  to  task,  however,  when  the  heat  of  this 
little  passage  had  evaporated,  for  she  was  almost  morbidly 
sensitive  to  rebuke.  Why  did  not  she  like  him  ?  He  was  in 
many  respects  what  she  most  admired,  as  her  aunt  often  insisted ; 
distingue,  intelligent,  and  cultivated ;  an  admirable  conversa- 
tionalist, and  quick  in  mind,  but Well,  he  did  not  touch 

her.  She  could  not  like  a  person  who  was  unsympathetic  to 
her,  but  she  would  try  still  more  to  be  cordial  to  him  on  her 
aunt's  account.  Yet  she  was  determined  not  to  let  it  interfere 
with  being  a  large  part  of  her  time  with  Evra.  The  girl  knew 
that  the  artist's  career  Guinevere  had  chosen  was  full  of  trial, 
because  in  voicing  the  emotions  she  stirred  all  that  portion  of 
her  nature  condemned  to  silence.  Bethesda  understood  that 
she  was  interposed  between  the  artist's  triumph  and  the  woman's 
grief.  She,  and  she  alone,  could  be  the  instrument  to  respond 
to  every  touch  of  Guinevere's  complex  nature,  and  unite  them 
in  harmonious  accord.  Was  this  to  be  given  up  for  the  sake 
of  being  constantly  with  M.  d'Isten  ?  No  indeed  ! 

The  next  morning,  however,  a  riding  party  was  formed,  in 
which  all  joined.  It  was  a  perfect  day,  with  a  cool  breeze 
blowing  over  the  blossoming  orchards,  and  as  they  entered  the 
carriage  to  drive  around  for  Evra,  Beth  had  the  brightness  of 
anticipated  pleasure  in  her  face,  and  was  more  natural  than  she 
had  ever  been  with  M.  d'Isten  present. 

He  did  not  fancy  ladies  riding.  Amazons  did  not  appeal 
to  his  keen  sense  of  the  womanly,  and  Beth  was  very  well 
aware  of  the  fact.  She  had  tried  to  avoid  the  party  from  her 
natural  dislike  to  doing  anything  another  did  not  find  pleasur- 
able ;  but  Mrs.  Trescott  was  longing  for  a  gallop,  and  thought 
that  in  the  informality  of  an  excursion  Beth  and  Rene'  might 
break  through  the  dignified  reticence  which  separated  them ;  so 
she  insisted,  and  Beth  was  now  silently  defying  with  a  gay  heart 
the  equally  silent  disapproval  of  his  lordship. 


CHAP,  vii.]  A  RIDE.  61 

When  they  reached  Mrs.  Conover's,  however,  and  Beth 
went  in  through  the  sunshine  that  flooded  the  southern  arch- 
way, her -violet  habit  outlining  the  rounded  figure  to  perfection, 
and  the  long  plumes  of  her  velvet  cap  mingling  with  the  solid 
coils  of  bronze  hair,  he  could  not  help  admitting  that  a  true 
woman  will  be  womanly  in  any  position.  He  turned  to  Mrs. 
Trescott  with  the  first  compliment  for  Beth  that  he  had  ever 
uttered. 

"  Your  niece,  madame,"  he  said  deliberately,  "  is  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  of  women." 

"  I  knew  you  would  like  her  ! "  exclaimed  Mabel  triumph- 
antly. "  Even  your  difficult  taste  would  be  conquered  by  her. 
She  said  you  would  be  bored  by  the  riding,  but  I  told  her  you 
would  find  her  and  Miss  Conover  so  charming  en  amazone  that 
you  could  not  be  bored." 

"Certainly  not, — with  you,"  he  replied  courteously,  but 
Miss  Hamilton's  quick  intuition  did  not  escape  him. 

In  a  few  moments  the  two  girls  reappeared,  Miss  Conover 
a  very  Diana  in  her  green  dress,  with  golden  curls  breaking  out 
from  under  the  stiff  English  hat,  and  shortly  after  they  had 
reached  the  four  horses  awaiting  them  with  the  grooms  outside 
the  Cascine  gates. 

They  had  planned  to  go  to  a  villa  and  chapel  off  towards 
the  sea-coast,  where  the  views  and  works  of  art  were  alike 
beautiful.  To  reach  it  they  could  pass  through  the  Cascine  and 
strike  off  across  the  meadows,  and  all  were  in  the  mood  for  a 
rustic  day. 

The  bijou  park  looked  irresistibly  lovely  as  they  entered  it. 
A  quadruple  avenue  of  trees  arched  feathery  branches  overhead 
in  a  tangle  of  fine  lines  against  the  deep  sky.  At  one  side  of 
the  carriage-way  was  a  grassy  space  shaded  by  live  oaks  inter- 
twined with  ivy,  now  fresh  with  tender  green.  A  bridle-path 
ran  parallel  with  the  road,  and  on  the  outer  side  was  a  wide 
ditch  separating  the  park  from  a  meadow  where  troops  were 
practising  military  manoeuvres.  Beyond  were  the  villa-dotted 
mountains  rising  in  purple  beauty  to  where  the  snow  crowned 
them  with  brilliants. 

It  was  an  exquisite  scene,  and  the  soft  charm  of  spring- 
time was  hushing  while  it  thrilled  every  nerve.  Beth  had 
fallen  into  silence,  and  was  recalling  that  day  beneath  Michel 
Angelo's  great  David,  when  it  seemed  as  if  each  breath  of 


62  BETHESDA.  [PART  r. 

air  were  striving  to  tell  her  a  message,  when  suddenly  she  heard 
a  smothered  exclamation,  and,  looking  back,  saw  Nero,  Mrs. 
Trescott's  horse,  rearing  and  pawing  the  air,  while  M.  d'Isten's 
bay  had  started  aside  with  a  snort  of  terror. 

Before  Mabel  could  regain  control  of  her  obstreperous  steed 
he  had  faced  about,  made  a  rush  across  the  road,  and,  springing 
high,  leaped  hedge  and  ditch,  to  land  several  feet  beyond  on  the 
turf  of  the  meadow. 

Mrs.  Trescott  was  a  woman  of  great  courage,  and  when 
Nero  came  to  the  ground,  although  she  looked  a  little  pale, 
she  nodded  reassuringly  to  the  breathless  group  above,  and 
let  him  scour  off  with  her  across  the  plain,  into  the  very 
midst,  as  it  seemed,  of  the  drilling  regiments.  The  black-robed 
lady,  who  rode  so  well,  would  be  somewhat  of  a  surprise  as 
an  impromptu  visitor  on  the  scene  of  action. 

"Do  go  after  her ! "  exclaimed  Beth,  appealing  to  M. 
d'Isten.  He  had  already  turned  to  do  so,  and  now,  putting 
spurs  to  his  horse,  took  the  ditch,  and  in  a  few  moments  Evra 
and  Beth  saw  him  gaining  on  Mrs.  Trescott's  curveting  beast, 
which  some  officers  had  headed  off. 

"  It  is  not  a  bad  joke  to  have  your  disapproving  monsieur 
obliged  to  go  after  Mrs.  Trescott  in  such  a  scrape,"  said  Evra, 
laughing,  as  they  put  their  horses  to  a  trot. 

"  He  doesn't  ride  badly,  though,  does  he  1 " 

"  Well  enough,"  answered  Evra  carelessly ;  "  but,  I  say, 
Mrs.  Trescott  does  know  how  to  keep  her  seat !  That  was  a 
stiff  jump,  and  you  aren't  accustomed  to  such  things  in  America, 
are  you  1 " 

"  No ;  auntie  learned  to  ride  on  an  unbroken  colt,  but  it 
was  never  at  hurdles !  She  ought  not  to  ride  that  horse,  or 
else  she  should  have  him  obey  her.  I  don't  believe  in  half-way 
measures  myself." 

"  Nor  I.  The  measures  you  have  used  with  Major  meet 
with  my  approval.  He  is  as  spirited  a  horse  as  Nero,  yet  he 
obeys  every  touch  on  the  rein." 

"An  Englishman  taught  me  to  ride,  you  know,"  answered 
Beth,  with  a  glance  of  amusement  at  Evra,  who  was  not  a  little 
jealous  of  Clarence. 

"  But  you  were  a  born  rider,  witch  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  should  have  seen  me  going 
up  Vesuvius  on  horseback  at  night  during  an  eruption.  It  was 


CHAP,  vil.]  FLOWEKS.  63 

the  first  time  I  had  ever  mounted  anything  but  a  donkey,  and 
wasn't  I  frightened  !  You  can't  think  what  a  coward  I  used 
to  be  about  horses.  That  was  what  made  me  so  anxious  to 
ride.  I  never  could  bear  to  have  any  weakness  stronger  than 
I.  It  makes  me  ashamed  until  I  can  afford  to  laugh  at  it  from 
the  safe  side  of  triumph." 

"  I  am  sure  no  one  would  dream  of  accusing  you  of  being  a 
coward,  and  I  don't  believe  you  ever  were.  You  have  not  one 
whit  of  anything  but  bravery  in  you.  And  anyway,  if  you  ever 
were  timid  with  horses,  it's  all  the  more  credit  for  you  to  be  so 
fearless  now.  So  you  see,  darling,  anyhow  you  can  fix  it,  you 
are  my  perfect,  spotless  Lily." 

"  Don't  say  that ! "  exclaimed  Beth  hastily.  "  You  don't 
know  how — how  afraid  I  feel  when  you  talk  so." 

"Afraid,  childie?" 

"  Yes,  as  one  feels  on  a  dizzy  height.  I  am  always  afraid 
of  falling." 

"Pshaw,  dear;  you  won't  fall." 

They  had  now  crossed  the  Piazza,  bordered  by  glistening 
magnolias,  and  entered  the  wilder  portion  of  the  Cascine.  Here 
nature  had  not  been  disturbed.  Great  branching  ivies  draped 
the  budding  trees,  which  were  knee-deep  in  underbrush  and 
earth-loving  vines.  Looking  into  this  forest,  one  fancied  one- 
self a  hundred  miles  from  any  habitation,  and  the  constant 
twitter  and  occasional  jubilant  songs  of  birds  favoured  the  de- 
lusion. In  some  more  open  spots  myrtle  blossoms  made  the 
ground  like  "a  bit  of  the  sky,  fallen  through  from  on  high,"  as 
Beth  quoted  softly,  and  Evra  immediately  beckoned  to  the 
groom  to  pick  some. 

They  had  each  a  cluster  of  long  sprays,  mingled  with  white 
violets,  before  their  sylvan  solitude  was  interrupted.  Then, 
happening  to  glance  toward  the  end  of  the  arcade,  Beth  saw 
two  equestrian  figures  outlined  like  statues  against  the  sunny 
atmosphere  beyond.  Both  tall,  slender,  and  graceful,  they 
were  immediately  recognised ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment 
that  they  remained  thus  in  the  light,  photographing  a  picture 
on  Beth's  mind  ;  then  they  entered  the  shadow  of  the  glade, 
and  soon  overtook  the  pastoral  couple. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  "exclaimed  Mabel  as  they  came  up. 

"  Picking  myrtle,"  answered  Evra,  holding  up  the  swaying 
bouquet. 


64  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"During  interludes  of  gathering  laurels,"  remarked  M. 
d'Isteu  quietly. 

"  Merci,  monsieur,"  said  Evra,  smiling,  "  I  see  you  rescued 
our  distressed  lady !  " 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  at  all  in  distress,"  cried  Mrs.  Trescott. 
"  You  are  not  to  flatter  him  at  my  expense,  you  know.  But  I 
confess  I  was  glad  to  have  a  friend  by  me,  among  all  those 
officers.  They  were  very  polite,  though.  Quite  an  adventure, 
wasn't  it?" 

"  One  can  always  be  sure  you  will  entrap  an  adventure  if 
there  is  one  possible,"  said  Evra,  laughing.  "  Beth  and  I  will 
have  to  chaperon  you,  as  she  says." 

Beth  had  not  spoken  since  they  came  up,  but  as  they  now 
all  naturally  turned  towards  her  she  said  abruptly  : 

"  Let  us  go  on ;  we  are  late,"  and  started  forward.  "  I 
am  sure  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  she  exclaimed  impatiently  to 
Evra,  as  they  rode  on,  "  but  I  am  actually  growing  to  dislike 
this  friend  of  auntie's." 

"I  cannot  see  any  reason  why  you  should,  dear.  He  is 
a  gentleman  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  and  he  really  wishes 
to  become  acquainted  with  you.  Give  him  a  chance.  It  is 
not  like  my  'just  judge'  to  condemn  a  man  unheard,  and 
you  are  always  so  cold  and  dignified  with  him,  he  cannot 
approach  you." 

"  You  think  I  am  at  fault  with  him,  then  ? " 

"You  could  not  lack  in  courtesy  to  any  one,  if  you  mean 
that ;  but  you  might  be  a  little  less  severely  haughty  with  him. 
He  seems  to  be  everything  one  could  ask." 

"  But  he  is  not  simpatico,  and — don't  let's  talk  of  him  any 
more." 

However,  this  conversation  had  some  effect  upon  Beth.  It 
was  easy  for  her  to  be  pliant  to  others'  wills  when  they  were 
not  dictatorial ;  so,  during  the  excursion  she  allowed  Evra  to  fall 
back  with  Mrs.  Trescott,  and  tried  to  be  more  freely  receptive 
of  M.  d'Isten's  courteous  advances.  Presently  she  found  it  was 
not  so  hard  as  at  first,  and  that  he  really  entertained  her. 

They  talked  of  life  in  Algeria.  He  was  charmed  with  her 
interest,  and  she  was  delighted  to  hear  one  familiar  with  it 
speak  of  a  country  which  exerted  a  strange  fascination  over 
her. 

"  You  were  born  there,  monsieur  1 " 


CHAP.  VII.]  SUBTLETIES.  65 

"  Yes,  when  my  mother  was  hardly  sixteen.  They  marry 
young  in  the  South." 

"  But  if  Algeria  is  your  native  country,  how  is  it  you  come 
to  speak  so  affectionately  of  the  Pyrenees  ? " 

"Ah,  that  is  the  home  of  my  ancestors.  The  place  where 
one's  own  little  life  comes  into  existence  has  small  claims  com- 
pared with  that  where  fathers  and  grandfathers  have  been  born 
and  died." 

"It  seems  unfortunate  that  one  who  appreciates  such  a 
home  should  not  date  his  own  birth  from  there." 

"My  mother  had  a  great  antipathy  to  France,"  replied 
M.  d'Isten  quietly.  "  She  was  devoted  to  her  own  land." 

"  I  should  have  been  in  her  place,"  remarked  Beth  care- 
lessly. He  flashed  a  penetrating  glance  across  her. 

"Pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  if  I  doubt  that." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Beth,  a  little  startled ;  "  you  think  one  would 
not  like  Algeria  1 " 

"  I  did  not  mean  that ;  it  was  not  a  question  of  places. 
You  might  love  your  own  free  land,  for  instance,  mademoiselle, 
but  there  are  other  things  to  which  you  would  sacrifice  it." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  quiet  assurance  which  amused  Beth. 

"  You  trust  much  to  your  impressions,  I  see." 

"  To  what  else  than  his  perceptions  can  a  person  trust  in 
character  1 " 

"  To  experience,  most  would  say." 

"  I  am  glad  you  add  that.  It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to 
point  out  to  you  that  if  one  waits  for  experience  to  judge  char- 
acter, one's  opportunities  fly  by  like  those  birds  across  the 
sky." 

"And  if  one  trusts  to  one's  impressions,  and  they  are 
incorrect  ? "  said  Beth  half  reluctantly. 

"  They  should  not  be,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  You  have  caught  yourself  there  ! "  thought  Beth,  with  a 
sudden  flash  in  her  eyes. 

"  Nay,"  he  answered,  with  that  quick  reading  which  to  Beth 
seemed  miraculous;  "one  who  judges  from  impressions  must 
be  sure  of  what  and  why  the  impressions  are.  Vagueness  is 
injustice." 

Beth  gave  her  horse  an  impatient  touch  of  the  whip. 
Why  should  she  be  thus  dissected,  and  why  should  he  presume 
to  instruct  her  ?  But  presently  he  rode  beside  her  again, 

F 


66  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

calling  her  attention  to  some  unnoticed  beauty  in  the  landscape 
with  so  sympathetic  a  manner  that  she  soon  allowed  herself  to 
be  disarmed. 

Later,  when  they  arrived  at  their  destination,  the  far- 
reaching  views  seemed  to  touch  both  M.  d'Isten  and  Beth  in 
a  kindred  spirit,  and  the  works  of  art  in  the  marble  chapel, 
built  in  commemoration  of  "  a  Laura  dearer  than  Petrarch's," 
appealed  to  the  same  sensitive  sense  in  each.  Thus  a  truer 
comprehension  quietly  built  its  foundations  beneath  them,  and 
there  was  hung  by  imperceptible  threads  a  bridge  over  the  icy 
stream  that  had  heretofore  separated  them. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"The  most  powerful  feeling  with  a  liturgy  is  the  prayer  which  seeks 
for  nothing  in  especial,  but  is  a  yearning  to  escape  from  the  limitations  of 
our  own  weakness,  aud  an  invocation  of  all  good  to  enter  and  abide  with 
us." — Daniel  Deronda. 

' '  Only  I  discern 
Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. " 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

IT  had  been  arranged  that  after  their  return  from  their  ride 
Mrs.  Trescott  and  Beth  should  go  to  the  representation  of  a 
French  drama,  given  by  an  excellent  company,  with  M.  d'Isten. 

Evra  could  not  go,  as  she  was  to  sing  the  next  night,  and 
did  not  wish  to  get  the  bad  air  of  the  theatre  into  her  throat. 
Great  was  the  surprise  of  all,  therefore,  when  Miss  Conover 
made  her  appearance  in  handsome  toilette  just  as  the  others 
were  about  to  start. 

"  You  have  changed  your  mind  ?  I  am  so  glad  ! "  exclaimed 
Beth,  hastening  to  welcome  her  friend.  But  she  found  there 
was  unusual  cause  for  this  change  when  her  hand  was  almost 
crushed  in  a  fierce  grasp. 

"What  is  the  matter1?"  she  asked,  alarmed  by  Evra's 
manner,  and  the  defiant  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  Nothing  !  "  said  Guinevere  abruptly.  "  I  am  going  to 
Milan  to-morrow,  and  I  would  be  with  you  to-night." 

"  To  Milan  !  Why,  you  are  advertised  to  sing  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Trescott. 


CHAP,  viii.]  A  BROKEN  BOND.  67 

"  I  know,  but  everything  is  upset.  A  telegram  calls  me  to 
Milan.  There  is  no  putting  it  off." 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  bad  news  1 " 

"  Bad  enough,  and  I  want  to  forget  it ! "  exclaimed  Evra, 
drawing  Beth's  arm  through  hers.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs. 
Trescott,  but  I  am  so  angry  I  can  hardly  speak.  You  will 
forgive  me  ?  Thanks.  Now,  shan't  we  go  down  1  I  did  not 
intend  to  detain  you." 

As  the  three  women  passed  M.  d'Isten,  who  held  aside  the 
portiere,  he  classed  them  instantly.  The  airy,  languid  grace 
and  sudden  energy  of  Mrs.  Trescott ;  that,  he  knew  well.  The 
passionate  intensity  of  the  artist ;  that  he  was  already  weary 
of.  The  delicate  sympathy  and  reliance  of  Miss  Hamilton  : 

"  I  must  know  her,"  he  decided  quietly,  and  it  should  be 
admitted  that  he  did  not  adequately  regret  Miss  Conover's  near 
departure. 

The  next  day,  when  Beth  went  down  to  stay  with  her  friend 
and  see  her  off,  she  heard  the  news.  It  was  of  a  character  to 
depress  any  one. 

The  man  to  whom  Evra  had  been  engaged  and  later  refused, 
was  taking  a  manly  revenge  by  endeavouring  to  shut  off  her 
opportunities  in  London,  spending  his  money  with  a  lavish  hand 
in  the  praiseworthy  endeavour.  It  would  retard  the  artist  for 
years,  wasting  precious  time,  if  he  should  succeed,  and  her 
former  maestro  had  telegraphed  her  to  come  immediately  if  she 
wished  to  foil  the  machinations.  There  was  no  choice  possible, 
so  she  had  paid  the  forfeit  to  the  Florentine  impresario,  had 
been  obliged  to  forego  her  benefit,  and  all  because  she  had 
refused  to  marry  a  man  whose  actions  made  her  despise  him. 

"  But  aren't  you  glad  you  are  free  ? "  exclaimed  Beth,  when 
Guinevere  thus  ended  the  story. 

"Ah,  for  that,  yes  !  But  shouldn't  I  have  led  him  a  pretty 
life  when  all  this  fine  character  came  out  after  marriage  f  He 
wouldn't  have  had  an  easy  time  of  it,  you  better  believe  ! " 

"  And  you  would  have  had  a  horrible  life  !  Imagine  being 
bound  to  such  a  person !  Oh,  I  am  so  thankful  for  you ! 
After  all,  this  is  a  small  price  to  pay  for  your  freedom." 

"  Hum  !  To-day  I  would  be  almost  willing  to  be  '  bound ' 
to  him  for  the  pleasure  of  tormenting  him.  He  wouldn't  find 
life  a  bed  of  down,  you  may  rest  assured  !  But  there ;  I  am 
talking  nonsense,"  she  said,  pulling  herself  up  short,  as  she 


68  BETHESDA.  [I-AIIT  I. 

noticed  the  pained  expression  on  Beth's  face.  She  stopped 
packing,  and  came  to  take  Beth's  hands. 

"  Do  you  know,  child,  what  makes  me  feel  this  more  than 
all  is  the  leaving  you.  I  can't  bear  to  go  away  from  you.  It 
tears  my  heart." 

There  was  a  tone  of  intense  emotion  in  her  voice  which 
almost  frightened  Beth.  Evra  was  scanning  her  face  with  wild 
eyes.  After  a  moment  she  said,  in  suppressed  tones  : 

"  You  like  me,  you  are  fond  of  me  ;  all  in  your  cool  lily-like 
way.  And  what  are  you  to  me  ? "  She  snatched  the  girl  into 
a  suffocating  embrace.  "You  are  my  dearest  on  earth.  I 
thought  this  power  of  loving  any  human  being  was  killed  in 
me.  I  could  have  sworn  there  was  no  one  in  the  whole  world 
who  could  ever  hold  my  heart  as  you  do.  I  tell  you,  child,  it 
is  tearing  my  heart  out  to  leave  you.  I  may  never  find  you 
the  same.  No,  you  need  not  protest.  I  know  I  am  a  friend 
to  you — a  dear  friend — if  you  like ;  but  you  are  inexpressibly 
more  than  a  friend  to  me.  You  are  all  the  love  I  have  in  the 
world  ;  all  I  can  give  or  take.  You  are  my  heart  itself ! " 

"  What  can  I  say,  dear  Evra  ? "  began  Beth,  but  the  artist 
interrupted  her  passionately. 

"  There  it  is  !  You  ask,  '  What  can  I  say  ? '  while  I  speak 
and  find  words  only  too  poor  !  I  know  you  can't  help  it ;  you 
don't  feel  as  I  do,  and  that  is  the  despair  of  it.  Yet  you  will 
love  some  day.  It  is  not  that  you  lack  passion;  it  is  all 
slumbering  within  you ;  and  when  it  is  awakened — oh,  shan't 
I  be  jealous  1 " 

She  pushed  the  girl  away  almost  roughly,  and  returned  to 
her  trunk.  Beth  did  not  know  what  to  do.  This  intense  love 
weighed  upon  her  heavily.  She  did  not  feel  Evra  supreme,  nor 
did  she  desire  to  do  so.  And  yet  she  was  so  sorry  for  Evra,  so 
grieved  that  she  could  not  give  all  that  was  asked  of  her,  that 
she  almost  blamed  herself. 

Thus  it  had  gone  on  in  alternations  of  passionate  outbursts 
and  constraint  all  day.  Evra  would  not  let  Beth  out  of  her 
sight,  and  Beth  wished  to  do  everything  she  could  to  please  her, 
and  remained  with  her  until  the  train  left. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  mingled  relief  and  depression  that  she 
turned  away  from  the  station.  This  absorption  was  wearying, 
and  yet  the  world  seemed  cold  without  it. 

"  If  I  ever  find  a  man  who  loves  me  like  that,  and  whom  I 


CHAP,  viii.]  ACTIVITY  IS  LIFE.  69 

can  love :  But  the  thought  would  not  be  completed. 

"  Of  course  it  is  impossible,"  she  said  aloud  severely ;  and  then 
she  had  reached  the  house  and  found  everything  lonely  and 
chill.  She  could  hear  her  aunt's  voice  and  M.  d'Isten's  in  the 
parlour,  but  the  sound  only  made  her  more  lonely.  The  rooms 
were  dark ;  heavy  clouds  had  obscured  the  sunset,  and  the 
twilight  was  fast  fading  into  night.  It  was  too  warm  for  a  fire, 
but  the  threatening  rain  chilled  the  air.  Everything  seemed 
dreary  and  cold ;  and  her  sympathy  for  Evra  emphasised  her 
own  feelings  until  she  felt  very  near  the  region  of  tears. 

But  this  would  never  do  !  She  was  not  a  woman  who 
appreciated  the  luxury  of  a  "  good  cry  ; "  so  now  she  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  lit  the  candles,  casting  about  her  for  a  new  thought. 
The  first  rays  revealed  a  book  lying  on  the  table.  It  was 
Bones  and  /,  a  weird  favourite  of  hers.  With  a  momentary 
hesitation  she  opened  it  and  read  : 

"  You  talk  of  suffering  being  pure  waste ;  I  tell  you  it  is  all 
pure  gain.  You  talk  of  self  being  the  motive  to  exertion ;  I 
tell  you  it  is  the  abnegation  of  self  which  has  wrought  out  all 
that  is  noble,  all  that  is  good  and  useful,  and  nearly  all  that  is 
ornamental  in  the  world.  It  is  not  the  dreamer,  wrapped  in  his 
fancied  bliss,  from  whom  you  are  to  expect  heroic  efforts,  either 
of  mind  or  body.  Wake  the  dreamer  roughly ;  drive  spurs  and 
goad  into  his  heart.  He  will  wince,  and  writhe,  and  roll,  and 
gnash  his  teeth,  but  I  defy  him  to  keep  still.  He  must  be  up 
and  doing  from  sheer  tortures,  flying  to  one  remedy  after 
another,  till  he  gets  to  work,  and  so  finds  distraction,  solace, 
presently  comfort ;  and,  after  a  while,  looking  yet  higher,  hope, 
happiness,  reward." 

Beth  stopped  and  looked  out  into  the  darkening  garden, 
where  a  few  dim  stars  were  striving  to  pierce  a  rainy  mist. 
There  would  come  a  time,  she  knew,  when  these  words  would 
be  throbbing  truth  to  her ;  when  the  thought  of  the  book  would 
be  unendurable,  because  she,  too,  would  be  going  through  the 
mill. 

She  sat  thinking  a  long  time.  In  the  play  the  night  before 
an  innocent  man  had  accused  himself  of  murder  to  save  an 
innocent  friend  and  the  honour  of  the  woman  he  loved.  Beth 
felt  the  power  within  her  to  do  something  of  the  kind.  She 
was  hungry,  not  to  be  loved,  but  to  love.  She  wanted  some  one 
on  whom  she  could  pour  out  the  whole  wealth  of  her  affec- 


70  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

tion,  and  not  feel  that  it  had  been  wasted,  but  given  to  the 
highest  use.  She  believed  she  could  walk  to  the  stake  steadily, 
proudly,  for  one  thus  dear  to  her,  or  for  what  she  knew  was  right. 

There  was  no  danger  of  tears  now.  Heroism,  even  in 
thought,  blots  out  the  possibility  of  such  weakness. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Mrs.  Trescott  went  to  church 
alone,  to  the  American  chapel,  where  a  "  union "  service  was 
held,  supposed  to  unite  all  the  sects  for  a  time  at  least  under 
the  national  flag.  Beth  did  not  wish  to  accompany  her,  and 
her  aunt  let  her  do  as  she  liked.  She  had  always  made  a 
principle  of  this  in  religious  matters.  She  was  a  Unitarian 
herself,  and  believed,  as  she  said,  in  freedom  to  worship  God. 

In  the  present  age  any  thought  makes  room  for  a  million 
doubts,  and  these  had  attacked  both  Margaret  and  Bethesda  as 
soon  as  they  were  old  enough  to  understand  anything  but 
obedience  to  custom.  Margaret  became  involved  in  the  toils 
of  that  false  philosophy  which  cramps  through  making  tests  for 
the  spirit  by  material  things.  It  was  only  after  years  of  struggle 
and  desperation  that  she  found  relegating  things  and  thoughts 
to  their  true  places  brought  her  peace,  and  learned  to  lift  herself 
from  independence  of  thought  to  true  knowledge  and  dependence 
on  the  love  of  God. 

Bethesda  was  quite  her  opposite  in  temperament.  Margaret 
had  to  be  convinced  before  she  would  yield  her  opinions  one 
jot;  Beth  obeyed  instinctively.  Everything  in  Margaret's 
nature  had  been  drawn  from  chaos,  as  it  were,  and  consciously 
formed  into  a  rounded  world ;  Beth's  was  a  sphere  launched 
into  space  with  only  its  orbit  to  discover.  But  Margaret  was 
steadfast  to  her  central  sun,  while  Beth  was  drawn  hither  and 
thither  by  the  attraction  of  different  planets,  and  had  no  definite 
aim.  She  had  been  accustomed  from  infancy  to  hear  of  her 
sweetness  of  character  as  much  as  her  lovely  face,  and  she 
rested  in  the  assurance  of  one  as  of  the  other,  thinking  it  un- 
necessary to  cultivate  either. 

The  trials  and  temptations  of  a  lovable  temperament,  as  it 
is  usually  termed,  are  not,  as  a  rule,  understood.  We  are  apt 
to  think  that  such  persons  have  no  difficulties  to  solve,  no 
struggles  to  undergo.  To  them  we  say  everything  comes  rose- 
coloured  and  perfumed ;  it  is  no  task  to  them  to  be  good.  But 
this  is  a  mistake.  Such  natures  have  an  inevitable  tendency 
to  weakness.  They  lack  that  conscious  principle,  formed  by 


CHAP.  VIII.]  A  MODERN  MIND.  71 

sturdy  endeavour,  which  is  the  only  enduring  cement  of  a 
worthy  character.  They  are  liable  to  the  error  of  considering 
their  instincts,  generally  true,  an  infallible  guide,  or  of  follow- 
ing blindly  the  guiding  hand  of  one  they  have  been  accustomed 
to  depend  upon.  Just  because  they  are  equally  developed  on 
many  sides  they  are  subject  to  many  attractions  which  draw 
them  from  their  individual  orbit.  They  are  sensitive  to 
influences,  and  yield  with  a  plasticity  which  makes  them  take 
on  different  forms  as  well  as  colours  until  they  are  insecure  of 
their  own. 

Bethesda  had  partially  recognised  these  errors  during  her 
illness.  It  had  been  a  serious  period  to  her.  For  the  first  time 
she  had  comprehended  that  to  stand  erect,  not  to  be  carried,  or 
to  lean,  is  of  vital  importance  to  integrity. 

In  the  recognition  of  self-responsibility  she  had  found  the 
hollowness  of  her  childish  faith.  It  was  as  empty  to  her  as  one 
of  her  china  dolls,  and  she  cast  it  from  her  as  she  would  any 
lifeless  illusion  of  childhood.  But  the  loss  of  the  symbol  left 
her  with  nothing  to  take  its  place.  The  idea  of  religion  was  a 
blank  to  her.  A  habit,  a  vague  sense  of  something  others 
knew  about  and  she  would  experience  some  time,  was  all 
religion  had  been  to  her ;  and  now  her  awakened  mind  would 
not  be  lulled  by  imagination  or  any  hereditary  faith.  She  had 
a  strong  feeling,  not  altogether  unshared  by  greater  minds,  that 
some  new  revelation  was  at  hand ;  that  this  was  the  eve  of  a 
transforming  era ;  and  she  took  a  certain  pride  in  holding  her- 
self undefiled  for  that  new  religion.  She  must  see  now,  and 
clearly,  to  believe,  and  meantime  the  highest  she  could  appre- 
hend was  her  own  perception  of  right. 

In  this  state  of  mind  formal  churchgoing  was  a  mockery  to 
her ;  she  shrank  from  it  as  hypocrisy ;  and  Mrs.  Trescott  left 
her  behind  with  a  comfortable  conviction  that  these  worries  had 
to  come  to  any  one  with  brains,  and  that  some  time  Beth  would 
waken  and  discover  the  world  knew  more  than  she  did,  in  spite 
of  her  foolish  dream. 

But  it  was  very  real  to  Beth,  and  to  still  her  uneasy 
craving  she  would  dress  as  inconspicuously  as  possible,  and, 
with  the  faithful  Assunta  on  guard  beside  her,  walk  or  drive 
swiftly  to  the  Santissima  Annunziata,  or  Dante's  Santa  Croce,  and 
give  herself  up  to  the  aesthetic  religion  which  was  now  her  refuge. 

George  Sand  writes  that  her  grandmother  on  her  deathbed 


72  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

said  solemnly :  "  J'ai  toujours  cru  en  Dieu,  mais  e'coute  ceci, 
ma  fille,  je  ne  1'ai  pas  assez  aimd"  With  Bethesda,  up  to  this 
time,  it  might  have  been  said  that  she  always  loved  God,  but 
she  did  not  sufficiently  believe  in  him.  Her  nature  was  always 
going  out  blindly  towards  some  perfection  which  she  could 
worship,  to  some  absolute  power  which  should  be  sure.  She 
was  empty,  as  it  were,  and  the  first  feelings  of  hunger,  a  vague 
pain,  a  faintness,  a  desire  for  she  knew  not  what,  made  them- 
selves felt.  She  tried  to  find  something  to  satisfy  her — some- 
thing to  quell  that  indistinct  disease  which  intuition  told  her 
was  dangerous.  Morally,  her  conscience  was  a  staff  whose 
soundness  she  did  not  doubt ;  but  mankind,  and  particularly 
womankind,  feel  the  need  of  something  besides  morality  to  fill 
their  lives — something  beyond  and  above  it.  A  noble  nature  is 
essentially  a  hero -worshipper;  and  if  it  has  not  a  real,  and 
eternal,  and  absolute  hero  to  worship,  it  will  find  a  great 
temptation  to  throw  itself  at  the  feet  of  this  or  that  idol  as  the 
better,  if  not  the  best. 

Happily,  Bethesda  had  too  natural  a  cleaving  to  the  unalter- 
able and  highest  best  for  her  to  yield  to  this  temptation.  When 
she  believed,  it  must  be  in  something  verifiable,  something 
which  would  appeal  to  a  higher  court  than  that  of  the  senses 
or  the  emotions — to  that  highest  of  all,  which  dwarfs  suffering, 
hushes  complaint,  and  gives  one  strength  to  bear  all,  and  rejoice 
in  the  bearing. 

Meantime  she  stood  alone. 

As  she  came  out  of  church,  half  envying  Assunta,  who  was 
wiping  her  eyes  beside  her — she  had  been  praying  that  her 
dearest  signora  might  be  admitted  into  the  holy  Church — 
Monsieur  d'Isten  quietly  stepped  to  her  side.  She  shrank,  just 
perceptibly,  in  recognising  him.  She  had  had  no  idea  he  was  in 
the  church.  She  was  not  at  all  aware  that  he  had  been  watching 
her  with  that  keen  discernment  which  was  one  of  his  most 
marked  characteristics.  She  felt  a  certain  shock  of  intrusion  in 
his  presence  which  she  tried  to  cover  instantly;  but  he,  of 
course,  had  seen  it. 

He  accompanied  her  to  the  carriage,  speaking  only  a  few 
grave  words  by  the  way,  and  when  she  turned  to  ask  him  to 
join  her  found  him  already  lifting  his  hat  as  he  moved  swiftly 
away.  She  admired  his  quick  perception,  and  yet  it  annoyed  her. 
She  scolded  herself  roundly.  She  had  been  rude — and  to  him  ! 


CHAP,  ix.]  CHARACTEK-STUDY.  73 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"  Our  sympathy  is  a  gift  we  can  never  know,  nor  when  we  impart  it. 
The  instant  of  communion  is  when,  for  the  least  point  of  time,  we  cease 
to  oscillate,  and  coincide  in  rest  by  as  true  a  point  as  a  star  pierces  the 
firmament." — THOREATI. 

' '  Sympathy,  viewed  from  the  passive  side,  on  the  active  side  is  called 
benevolence." — W.  H.  MALLOCK. 

RENE  D'ISTEN'S  character  was  of  an  essentially  foreign  quality. 
The  courts  and  customs  of  Europe  educate  persons  in  a  school 
entirely  different  from  any  American's  experience,  and  it  is 
difficult  for  them  to  gain  just  impressions  of  the  Latin  mind. 

Mrs.  Trescott  understood  him  only  superficially.  She 
recognised  him  as  a  refined  and  courteous  aristocrat,  with  a 
republican  liberality;  a  remarkable  uniting  of  frankness  and 
reserve,  of  cordiality  and  distinction.  Further,  into  the  motives 
of  his  life,  the  causes  of  these  results,  she  did  not  look,  unless 
during  the  time  when  she  was  under  the  vivid  influence  of  the 
secret  he  had  confided  to  her. 

Bethesda  was  more  of  a  psychologist,  but  only  an  intuitive 
one.  There  was  much  to  admire  in  him.  His  mind  was  as 
well-poised  as  his  head,  and  there  was  a  firmness  of  steel  in 
his  decisions  as  in  his  muscles.  He  was  keenly  appreciative 
of-  sentiment,  while  the  hazy  raptures  of  sentimentality  disap- 
peared like  mists  under  the  sunlight  of  his  clear  mind.  He 
had  a  marvellous  amount  of  tact,  and  his  perceptions  were 
acute ;  not  a  quiver  of  sensitive  lips  escaped  him,  nor  the  subtlest 
tremor  of  thought. 

Bethesda  also  apprehended  instinctively  a  certain  wariness 
and  suppleness  of  mind  •  a  duality  in  the  man,  which,  when 
she  was  out  from  under  his  direct  influence,  confused  and  blurred 
her  impressions.  Not  that  he  was  insincere — his  ardent  devo- 
tion to  certain  causes  and  persons  barred  such  suspicions — but 
she  was  aware  that  he  exercised  a  self-control,  which  had  be- 
come a  second  nature,  and  presented  himself  to  the  world  only 
as  he  wished  to  be  seen.  Who  could  tell,  then,  where  this 
ended  and  his  real  self  began  ? 

Now  this  duality,  which  Bethesda  did  not  justly  under- 
stand, is  peculiarly  European.  The  intrigue  of  society  nur- 


74  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

tures  the  man  from  his  cradle.  He  is  taught  self-control  and 
tact  before  he  is  taught  frankness  and  truth,  and,  when  after- 
life builds  a  superstructure,  one  cannot  be  sure  on  which  founda- 
tion it  has  its  basis.  In  any  case,  the  man  is  dual ;  he  has  two 
selves ;  one  that  he  himself  knows,  or  thinks  he  knows,  and 
one  that  the  world  thinks  it  knows.  These  intermix  and 
fuse  their  qualities  so  dexterously  that  finally  no  one  can  say 
which  is  the  body,  so  to  speak,  and  which  the  spirit ;  they  are 
quite  as  interactive  as  this  problem  of  the  philosopher's.  The  in- 
dividual, meanwhile,  is  neither  one  nor  the  other :  he  is  actually 
both. 

M.  d'Isten  had  used  many  of  the  qualities  of  both  sides  of 
his  nature  in  his  acquaintance  with  Mabel  Trescott.  She  was 
proud  of  her  power  to  make  persons  feel  insecure  of  her,  and 
between  her  and  M.  d'Isten  there  had  been  a  continual  warfare, 
in  which  now  one,  now  the  other,  was  conquered  and  conqueror. 
On  the  whole,  however,  M.  d'Isten  triumphed.  He  had  patience, 
as  well  as  versatility,  and  his  will-power  was  a  carefully  de- 
veloped capacity,  in  which  he  had  received  much  training  from 
himself  and  others,  while  Mabel's  was  capricious  and  incon- 
stant. She  delighted  as  much  in  giving  full  blossoms,  when 
green  buds  alone  were  expected,  as  in  giving  a  thorn-prick  when 
one  bent  to  inhale  a  tropical  fragrance.  And  Rene*  d'Isten 
knew  how  to  receive  the  flower  with  grace  no  less  well  than  he 
knew  how  to  avoid  the  thorns,  and  after  their  reconciliation  he 
had  secured  himself  in  her  friendship,  she  hardly  knew  how, 
but  much  more  decidedly  than  before. 

This  left  him  comparatively  free  to  follow  up  his  resolve  of 
knowing  more  of  Miss  Hamilton,  and  Mrs.  Trescott  was  very 
willing  to  aid  him.  Bethesda  herself  was  passive  in  their 
hands.  The  sudden  separation  from  her  friend,  who  had  en- 
grossed the  girl  to  an  almost  exhausting  degree,  left  her  in  a 
subdued  and  listless  state  of  mind.  The  approaching  farewell 
to  the  scenes  she  loved,  to  Italy,  and  the  life  she  had  lived 
there,  gave  a  tinge  of  wistful  sadness  to  all  her  thoughts ;  and 
the  enervating  influence  of  an  Italian  spring  made  her  yield 
to  her  aunt  unquestioningly,  drifting  with  the  stream  of  her 
desires. 

Thus  they  were  either  driving  through  the  still  air,  looking 
on  scenes  of  rarest  loveliness,  or  visiting  churches  filled  with 
the  art  of  centuries,  and  mystically  solemnised  by  the  glamour 


CHAP,  ix.]  DRIFTING.  75 

of  a  symbolic  religion,  or  sitting  in  their  own  shadowy  parlour, 
talking  and  listening  to  gradual  unfoldings  of  character. 

What  wonder,  then,  that  M.  d'Isten,  with  his  thorough 
savoir-faire,  was  able  to  make  the  barrier  of  prejudice  crumble 
away  unnoticed  1  He  knew  how  to  impress  himself  upon 
Bethesda's  mind  by  imperceptible  means  that  could  arouse  no 
surprise  or  even  recognition.  He  talked  to  her  no  more  than 
formerly,  but  in  his  conversations  with  her  aunt  he  allowed  his 
inner  nature  to  come  to  the  surface,  and  show  itself  in  a  thousand 
delicate  ways,  which  could  not  but  win  attention  from  one  so 
sensitive  to  all  refinement  as  Bethesda. 

One  afternoon,  the  day  before  their  projected  departure 
from  Florence,  whence  they  were  to  go  to  Paris  in  company, 
they  came  up  from  luncheon  a  little  wearied  by  the  exertion  of 
packing  on  a  warm  day.  Bethesda  seated  herself  by  the  shaded 
window  to  enjoy  the  jessamine  and  tiny  cream  roses  which 
wreathed  it  in  a  multitude  of  delicate  lines.  The  outline  of 
her  face  and  figure  was  cut  clearly  against  the  dark-blue  damask, 
while  an  eager  ray  of  sunlight  found  and  rested  on  the  bronzed 
gold  of  her  hair.  Mrs.  Trescott  threw  herself  on  an  ottoman 
near  by,  and  leaned  her  head  against  Beth's  knee.  The 
girl  idly  broke  off  clusters  of  the  rose-vine,  and  weaved  them 
in  among  her  aunt's  dark  curls. 

M.  d'Isten  paced  the  room  in  a  silent  mood  of  repressed 
excitement.  The  languor  of  a  southern  mid-day,  the  surround- 
ings of  the  beautiful  room,  the  atmosphere  of  domestic  woman- 
liness, threw  a  charm  around  the  group  to  which  this  man  was 
almost  painfully  sensible. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  known  my  mother,"  he  said 
abruptly.  "I  often  feel  as  if  she  knew  you." 

Mabel  looked  up  in  surprise,  while  Beth  said  simply : 

"  Tell  us  about  her." 

It  was  a  subject  on  which  he  seldom  spoke,  but  it  was  be- 
coming no  new  thing  for  him  to  give  expression  to  ideas  and 
feelings  that  had  previously  been  unspoken.  Now  he  answered 
as  simply  as  he  had  been  asked. 

"  You  know  she  was  an  Orientale.  Her  father  was  a  man 
of  great  influence  in  Algiers,  and  she  was  his  favourite  child. 
She  was  educated  as  few  Eastern  women  are  even  when  my 
father  married  her,  and  she  was  then,  as  I  told  you,  mademoi- 
selle, only  fifteen.  She  was  very  beautiful.  My  father  took 


76  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

her  to  Paris  soon  after  they  were  married,  but  he  returned  with 
her  to  Algiers  quickly.  She  disliked  Paris,  and  the  attention 
she  attracted  there  seemed  to  hurt  her.  It  made  her  shrink 
and  wince.  She  was  essentially  Eastern,"  he  went  on,  twining 
a  jessamine  wreath  slowly  around  his  hand ;  "  her  nature  had 
the  grace  and  warmth  of  the  tropics.  Her  very  soul  was  given 
to  my  father,  and  yet  I  have  heard  him  say  that  she  inspired 
him  with  a  reverence  that  made  him  feel  afar  off  at  times. 
Some  women  seem  to  reach  higher  than  any  man  can." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  his  mind  appeared  to  be  absent 
from  his  surroundings.  Neither  of  the  ladies  spoke.  Presently 
he  said  : 

"  My  father,  too,  was  very  young  when  he  married.  He 
did  not  realise  that  he  would  be  giving  up  his  country  in  marry- 
ing an  Algerian.  But  when  he  found  she  would  be  unhappy 
elsewhere  he  made  the  sacrifice  quietly.  Perhaps  no  one  knew 
what  a  sacrifice  it  must  have  been  so  well  as  I." 

"Your  father  and  mother  were  a  great  contrast  to  one 
another,  were  they  not  1 "  asked  Beth. 

"  Markedly  so.  He  is  reserved  and  quiet,  and  has  an  iron 
will.  He  is  somewhat  cold  also,  but  a  man  must  not  show  too 
much  feeling.  You  see,  he  is  quite  my  ideal,"  he  added,  smiling. 

"  A  Bayard,  Beth  once  called  him,"  said  Mabel  teasingly. 

The  words  recalled,  as  by  magic,  the  conversation  in  the 
train  between  Genoa  and  Florence,  and  Beth  was  silent,  think- 
ing how  strangely  events  had  come  round  that  they  two  should 
be  sitting  there  conversing  intimately  with  a  man  whom  that 
day  they  both  disliked.  And  how  about  her  presentiment  1 

She  pushed  the  obtrusive  thoughts  away  by  saying : 

"  You  are  a  great  deal  with  your  father  1 " 

"  Not  of  late  years.  When  I  was  a  lad  I  used  to  be  with 
him  as  constantly  as  school  duties  would  allow ;  but  not  now." 

"  Have  you  brothers  and  sisters,  monsieur  1 " 

11  Two  step-brothers.     My  sister  died  when  I  was  a  child." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  with  sudden  pity.  She  felt  the 
meaning  that  lay  under  the  reticence  of  his  tone.  He  was  a 
man  of  domestic  nature,  and  fate  had  made  all  his  family  rela- 
tions cold.  To  Beth,  whose  only  fear  of  death  was  the  thought 
of  its  loneliness,  this  life  of  continued  heart-solitude  was  terrible. 
She  felt  that  she  could  never  bear  such  a  burden,  and  yet  he 
was  always  so  cheerful  and  sunny  ! 


CHAP,  ix.]  EXTEKIOR  AND  INTERIOE.  77 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  with  one  of  her  rarely  tender  smiles, 
"  you  must  be  either  very  strong  or  very  hard ;  which  is  it  ? " 

"  Which  is  it  1     I  ask  you,  mademoiselle." 

"  I  will  not  flatter  you,"  she  replied ;  and  Mabel  glanced  up 
well  pleased.  The  remark  was  a  milestone  which  showed  the 
distance  traversed  during  these  quiet,  dreamy  days. 

"  You  are  a  judge  of  character,  mademoiselle,"  resumed  M 
d'Isten  presently.  "  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  think  of  my 
father's  face  ?  I  have  a  photograph  here." 

On  her  cordial  assent  M.  d'Isten  took  from  his  pocket  a 
book  which  was  stamped  with  his  name  and  crest. 

"  What  a  charming  little  affair  ! "  exclaimed  Mabel ;  "  may 
I  see  it  ? " 

He  had  taken  out  the  photograph,  and  now  handed  it  to 
Beth,  while  Mrs.  Trescott  examined  the  coat-of-arms. 

"  May  I  see  what  is  inside  1 "  she  asked  mischievously. 

"  If  you  like." 

"  Oh,  you  are  altogether  too  amiable.  Come,  Beth,  let  me 
see  that ;  you  have  been  studying  it  long  enough." 

"It  is  a  fine  head,"  said  Beth,  glancing  at  M.  d'Isten. 
There  was  a  strong  resemblance  between  father  and  son.  "  He 
is  quite  what  I  had  imagined  him  :  severely  noble,  and  yet  a  man 
I  would  trust  for  liberality  and  charity  without  limit.  I  wish  we 
had  met  him.  I  don't  think  I  should  be  afraid  of  him." 

"You  would  have  no  cause  to  be,  you  would  understand 
one  another,"  he  said,  with  a  proud  light  in  his  eyes.  "  He  is 
a  man  you  could  appreciate." 

"A  handsome  old  gentleman,"  remarked  Mrs.  Trescott, 
carelessly  putting  the  photograph  on  a  table  near  by.  "  You 
will  have  white  hair  like  that  one  of  these  days." 

"  Yes,  we  turn  gray  early,"  he  replied,  opening  his  book  to 
replace  the  card.  As  he  did  so  another  photograph  was  half 
disclosed. 

"  Who  is  that  1     Let  us  see  that,"  exclaimed  Mabel. 

He  flashed  a  glance  across  her,  but  without  a  word  gave 
her  what  she  desired. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  deprecatingly,  as  she  saw  a  woman's  face, 
"  it  is  your  wife." 

He  did  not  answer.  Mabel  was  studying  the  picture,  and 
Beth,  after  an  involuntary  glance  at  M.  d'Isten's  pained  face, 
kept  her  eyes  steadily  downcast. 


78  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

How  could  her  aunt  have  made  such  a  mistake  1  And  he 
carried  his  wife's  photograph  always  with  him,  in  spite  of  what 
must  have  happened.  He  had  a  devoted  nature  to  be  so  fond 
of  his  home,  his  father,  and  his  wife.  Her  .notion  of  his  "  chilly 
disposition,"  "unwarmed  intellectuality,"  and  so  forth,  began 
to  dissolve  and  disappear. 

"  It  is  a  discontented  face,"  said  Mabel  at  last,  with  an 
accent  of  dislike  in  her  voice.  "  Otherwise,  she  is  a  handsome 
woman." 

As  Mrs.  Trescott  returned  it  to  M.  d'Isten  he  offered  it  to 
Bethesda  in  silence. 

"  Thanks,"  she  said,  refusing  to  receive  it  with  a  slight 
gesture,  and  not  looking  up. 

If  she  had  seen  his  expression  of  satisfaction  then  it  would 
have  puzzled  her.  This  impulsive  girl,  with  her  keen  sympathy 
and  desire  not  to  intrude,  would  have  found  it  difficult  to 
understand  how  any  action  of  hers  could  have  the  slightest 
effect  at  such  a  moment.  But  he  was  not  one  to  lose  intellectual 
perception  through  emotion,  and  when  his  insight  was  verified 
it  gave  the  pleasure  of  a  gratified  faculty. 

Such  a  man,  brought  into  familiar  intercourse  as  he  now 
was  with  a  woman  like  Bethesda  Hamilton,  found  a  forceful 
charm  in  her  mobile  sympathy.  The  play  of  feeling  in  her  face 
had  an  unceasing  fascination.  There  was  an  iridescence  of 
thoughts  and  moods,  which,  like  the  sea,  rippled  over  an  under- 
lying strength  on  which  one  could  buoyantly  repose.  She  was 
fully  his  equal  in  quick  comprehension,  although  from  different 
causes,  and  her  depth  of  emotion  and  spontaneity  were  a  con- 
trast that  unconsciously  answered  to  his  own  need. 

Now,  however,  the  former  good  understanding  was  for  the 
time  disturbed.  The  shadow  of  this  dark  secret  fell  over  all 
three.  Beth  had  risen,  and  was  wandering  around  the  room, 
while  the  others  kept  up  a  disjointed  conversation.  She  felt 
an  intruder  when  she  came  up  against  this  blank  wall  through 
which  the  others  had  a  gate.  Presently  she  bethought  her  of  a 
letter  to  be  finished  for  the  evening  mail,  and  slipped  unnoticed 
away. 

She  had  been  writing  for  some  time,  and  had  forgotten  all 
her  worries,  when  Mabel  startled  her  into  making  a  great  dash 
by  throwing  aside  the  curtains  and  exclaiming : 

"  You  truant !  it's  a  shame " 


CHAP,  ix.]        AN  OPEN  SECRET  TOLD.  79 

"  It  certainly  is  !"  interrupted  the  girl.  "  See  what  you 
made  me  do  !  Isn't  she  naughty,  monsieur?" 

"  Perhaps  it  was  unkind  to  interrupt  such  an  interesting 
letter,"  he  said,  with  just  the  least  tone  of  depression  in  his 
voice. 

"  A  most  interesting  letter,  I  assure  you,"  she  said  demurely. 

"  I  will  tell  him  your  secret  if  you  don't  come,"  cried 
Mabel,  "take  care  !" 

"  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  this.  You  see, 
you  have  put  me  back,  and  it  must  be  ready  for  to-night's 
mail." 

M.  d'Isten  had  been  watching  her  closely;  he  saw  the 
slight  flush  in  her  cheeks,  the  brilliance  in  her  eyes,  and  he 
thought  he  knew  it  all.  Somewhat  abruptly  he  turned  away. 

"  See,  Kene*  is  hurt,"  said  Mabel  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  think 
you  might  leave  your  letter.  Anyway,  if  you  don't,"  in  a 
louder  voice,  "  I  shall  tell  him." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Beth  carelessly.  She  never  could  be 
forced  in  anything,  and  certainly  her  aunt  could  entertain  her 
friend  for  a  few  moments  unassisted. 

Mrs.  Trescott  chose  her  for  the  topic. 

"  Guess  to  whom  she  is  writing,  Eene'  ?" 

" Her  fiance"  he  replied,  as  if  there  were  no  doubt  about 
the  matter. 

"  Hardly ;  but  I  sometimes  wonder  if  she  will  care  for  a 
fiance  more  than  she  does  for  this.  She  sends  a  weekly  letter 
to  one  of  our  best  papers ;  isn't  she  clever?" 

M.  d'Isten  turned  sharply. 

"Mademoiselle  writes?"  he  exclaimed;  "she  writes  and 
publishes  ?" 

"  She  does  indeed.  It  surprises  you  ?  She  would  not  let 
me  tell  you  before  ;  she  is  very  sensitive  about  having  it  known. 
But  really,  she  has  no  need  to  be.  She  receives  good  pay ; 
that  shows  her  letters  are  worth  something.  Money  is  the  test, 
especially  with  us,  you  know.  But  why  should  it  amaze  you 
so?"  she  added,  noticing  his  absent  manner,  and  a  peculiar 
luminous  appearance  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  say — it  is  so  unexpected "  He  put  his  hand 

over  his  eyes  a  moment;  then  presently  asked  in  his  usual 
tone,  but  with  eagerness  : 

"  On  what  subjects  does  she  write  ?     On  art  ?" 


80  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"0,  110 ;  mostly  bits  of  foreign  life,  descriptions  of  this 
and  that.  Anything  interesting,  you  know." 

"And  what  name  does  she  use  V 

" Her  own.     She  did  not  like  the  idea  of  a  nom  de plume" 

"  What  is  her  own  1  Simply  '  Beth'?"  (He  pronounced  it 
"  Bet") 

"  No  ;  that  is  the  abbreviation.  Her  real  name  is  Bethesda, 
from  the  Bible,  you  know.  She  has  always  had  a  romantic 
notion  that  it  meant  something  in  her  life.  She  is  full  of  such 
fancies.  I  think  she  will  always  like  Algeria,  because  it  was 
from  there  she  first  wrote.  Not  but  that  she  has  always  been 
inclined  to  scribble  ;  and  even  before  she  was  old  enough  to  do 
that  she  made  her  dolls  talk  to  one  another,  like  a  story-book. 
We  used  to  find  it  an  excellent  method  to  discover  what  had 
made  an  impression  on  her,  for  she  would  repeat  conversations 
she  had  heard,  weaving  in  her  own  fancies,  and  imaginary 
incidents,  until  we  could  hardly  tell  ourselves  where  what  we 
had  said  left  off  and  her  own  notions  began." 

"  But  she  first  published  from  Algeria  ?"  said  M.  d'Isten, 
with  repressed  eagerness. 

"  Yes,  she  was  very  deeply  impressed  with  the  country 
there.  Ah,  ha,  Miss  !"  she  cried,  as  Beth  here  came  in  ;  "your 
secret  is  yours  no  longer.  And  Kene"  was  greatly  shocked  to 
hear  of  your  presumption !  I  doubt  if  he  will  ever  speak  to 
you  again." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  beg  you  to  accept  my  profound  con- 
gratulations, mademoiselle." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  blushing  prettily.  "  I  was  afraid 
you  would  think  me  silly." 

"  How  could  I  ?  You  knew  well  I  would  not.  The  supreme 
thing  one  can  do  is  to  exercise  one's  faculties  for  the  benefit  of 
others,  and  you  are  allowing  many  the  privilege  of  looking 
through  your  eyes." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  some  of  her  critics  say,"  remarked 
Mabel.  "  '  She  makes  us  see  what  she  sees,'  they  say,  '  not 
coloured,  but  what  it  actually  is.'  We  are  very  proud  of  that !" 

"Don't,  auntie!" 

"  And  why  not,  if  you  please  ?  I  have  a  good  right  to 
praise  my  niece,  if  I  wish.  It  gives  me  a  reflected  glory." 

"  Don't  tease,  Aunt  Mabel." 

"Mademoiselle  Bethesda."  said  M.  d'Isten,  drawing  nearer 


CHAP,  ix.]  PEESUASION.  81 

her,  "  will  you  let  me  take  your  hand,  and  wish  that  this  may 
bring  you  all  the  happiness  I  desire  for  you  1" 

His  tone  struck  Beth  as  a  little  odd,  but  she  held  out  her 
hand  cordially.  He  took  it  in  his,  which  was  well-formed,  thin, 
and  ascetic ;  its  clasp,  rarely  given,  was  possessive,  not  alone  of 
another,  but  of  himself;  now  it  closed  around  Beth's,  until  she 
felt  hers  unbreakably  bound. 

"  Understand,"  he  said,  "  all  the  happiness  I  can  desire  for 
you.  You  may  never  know  what  that  is,  but  pray  accept  the 
assurance  that  no  wish  was  ever  more  sincere."  He  released 
her  hand,  and  then  asked :  "  May  I  see  your  letter  ?" 

"Oh  no!"  she  exclaimed;  "it  really  isn't  worth  your 
reading." 

"  Let  me  be  the  judge.  You  need  not  be  afraid  to  have 
me  see  what  thousands  read  and  praise." 

"  But  it  is  all  about  little  traits  of  foreign  life,  which  would 
be  a  twice-told  tale  to  you." 

"  And  what  is  more  charming  than  a  glimpse  of  a  scene 
familiar  to  us  through  a  stranger's  discerning  eyes  ?  Don't  we 
all  enjoy  a  painting  better  of  something  we  know  ?  You  will 
give  a  new  gem  to  my.  collection." 

"  But  you  will  be  so  disappointed,  with  such  ideas  in  your 
mind  !  I  think  I  had  better  leave  you  in  undisturbed  posses- 
sion of  your  fancy  rather  than  interfere  with  the  reality." 

"  You  could  give  me  a  great  pleasure,"  he  answered  quietly. 

Bethesda  wavered  at  this.  There  was  something,  she  could 
not  tell  what,  that  took  from  her  all  desire  to  refuse.  He  had 
a  persuasive  quality,  that  relied  little  on  words,  but  made  one 
feel,  insensibly  as  it  were,  that  what  he  wished  was  easiest  and 
best. 

"  Well,  since  you  are  kind  enough  to  care  about  it,  I  will 
give  you  a  printed  letter,"  she  said,  after  a  momentary  hesita- 
tion. "  But  don't  read  it  until  you  are  away  from  us,"  she 
added,  with  a  deprecating  glance ;  "  then  you  can  skip  all  you 
like." 

He  was  wise  enough  to  be  content  with  this ;  and,  when 
she  had  found  and  given  him  the  letter,  still  with  a  shy  re- 
luctance, he  pressed  her  to  sing,  knowing  she  would  thus  lose 
her  unwonted  self-consciousness  quickest. 

Her  vocal  accomplishments  were  not  at  all  ambitious,  and 
perhaps  for  that  reason  they  pleased  him  the  more.  In  any 

G 


82  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

case  he  would  listen  attentively  as  long  as  she  could  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  remain  at  the  piano,  surrendering  himself  to  the 
charm  of  a  voice  in  which  pathos  and  passion  mingled. 

Her  last  soug  was  "  The  Minstrel  Boy,"  and  as  its  stirring 
chords  stopped  she  wheeled  towards  him  with  a  patriotic  fire 
in  her  eyes. 

"You  were  in  the  war,  monsieur?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  shortly.  A  dark  look  came  over  his 
face,  and  his  mouth  set  in  a  stern  line.  He  replied  to  Beth's 
startled  glance  by  saying  : 

"The  war  was  a  trick,  a  cruel  deception.  The  gambler 
made  the  throw  as  a  last  resource,  and  when  it  failed,  France 
was  the  one  who  paid.  I  led  a  few  companies  to  the  slaughter," 
went  on  M.  d'Isten,  his  voice  gaining  a  tense  resonance.  "  I 
saw  how  our  men  gave  their  lives  gladly  for  their  country, — 
and  how  they  cursed  when  they  found  it  was  only  to  bring  her 
to  dishonour  !  Louis  Napoleon  tarnished  his  country's  fame ; 
he  outraged  what  should  have  been  dearer  to  him,  more  sacred 
than  his  own  mother; — what  Frenchman  can  forgive1?" 

Here  was  what  aroused  the  self-controlled  man.  He  stood 
with  his  arm  lifted  as  if  he  would  strike  every  enemy  of  France 
to  the  earth,  his  tall  figure  erect  and  martial.  He  never  had 
looked  more  of  a  man.  Then  his  hands  dropped  and  clasped 
before  him. 

"  I  love  my  country,"  he  said,  with  a  tone  of  deep  tender- 
ness ;  "  I  would  give  my  life  to  keep  one  grain  of  dust  from  her 
robes.  All  Frenchmen  feel  the  same ;  and  yet  that  man,  our 
soi-disant  emperor,  made  us  soak  her  skirts  in  the  mire  of  blood 
and  wrong.  He  brought  us  to  such  a  pass  for  his  own  selfish 
ends,  that  we  were  obliged  to  do  it ;  then,  to  complete  the  igno- 
miny, he  deceived  us,  so  that  we  fell.  The  iron  foot  of  foreign 
tyranny  was  placed  on  the  neck  of  our  nation,  of  our  country, 
of  our  France  ! " 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  Something  rose  in  his  throat  and 
impeded  utterance.  He  had  never  spoken  in  this  way  before. 
He  had  never  inown  what  it  was  to  give  way  in  abandon. 
But  because  a  man  is  slow  to  fire  it  does  not  follow  that  he  has 
no  passion,  as  Bethesda  now  began  to  comprehend. 

The  impetus  of  the  pent-up  stream  finding  egress,  carried 
him  on  now  past  even  this  curious  faltering. 

"  I  do  not  say  that  we  were  guiltless.     We  should  have 


CHAP,  ix.]  NOTRE  PATRIE.  83 

recognised  the  wrong  it  was  to  France  to  place  her  in  the  power 
of  a  Louis  Napoleon.  We  should  have  flung  far  from  us  the 
shame  of  the  coup  d'etat.  We  should  have  shown  the  world 
that  we  could  not  be  made  into  slaves  even  by  ourselves.  But 
we  did  not,  and  the  fruits  of  slavery  came.  We  were  shown 
the  tyranny  of  a  master  by  subjection  to  a  foreign  power. 
There  may  have  been  treachery ;  there  may  have  been  deceit ; 
but  if  we  could  not  rise  above  these  to  the  height  of  loyalty  and 
honour  we  deserved  to  fall — as  we  have." 

"  Have  you  1"  said  Beth  bravely.  "  It  seems  to  me  that 
France  was  never  so  noble  as  now.  She  has  thrown  off  the 
chains  of  the  past  and  commenced  a  truer  government.  She 
first  sowed  the  seeds  of  liberty  throughout  Europe,  and  she  is 
now  leading  it  in  action.  Has  she  not  risen  instead  of  fallen  ? 
She  is  whole-souled  in  her  devotion  to  a  cause.  Just  think  how 
she  broke  through  all  the  machinations  of  her  enemies  when 
she  paid,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  the  debt  Bismarck  expected 
would  cripple  her  for  years !  I  think  she  is  more  worthy  of  admira- 
tion than  she  has  ever  been.  She  is  not  cast  down ;  she  is  not 
despondent ;  and  it  is  better  to  lose  all  than  to  fail  in  striving." 

M.  d'Isten  had  listened  to  her  with  a  grave  face,  and  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  floor.  He  raised  them  now,  and  Bethesda  was 
startled  by  their  shining. 

"  You  are  right,  mademoiselle.  I  shall  not  forget.  France 
and  America  exchange  their  gifts.  They  are  comrades  in  arms. 
France  gave  America  the  idea  to  work  upon;  America  gave 
France  the  solid  encouragement  of  example,  the  sturdy  child  of 
her  theories.  I  believe  France  can  be  a  republic.  She  will 
have  strength  to  carry  her  government,  as  you  say,  like  *a 
lantern  before  the  eyes  of  Europe.  She  will  not  desert  the 
cause,  nor  her  sons  their  ambition." 

"What  a  patriot  you  are,  Rene' !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Trescott. 
"  I  never  knew  you  so  enthusiastic  before." 

"Perhaps  I  never  have  been,  at  least  in  words;  but  I 
cannot  imagine  life  without  France." 

He  took  a  turn  or  two  in  silence,  and  then  added,  with  a 
smile : 

"  I  remember  in  Algeria,  when  I  was  hardly  out  of  dresses, 
how  I  used  to  long  for  noire  patrie.  It  warms  my  heart  to  find 
you  so  eloquent  in  its  defence,  mademoiselle." 

"  She  is  a  perfect  blue  stocking  in  her  devotion  to  the 


84  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

French  Revolution,"  said  Mrs.  Trescott ;  "  she  is  always  reading 
about  it." 

"It  is  the  most  interesting  period  in  modern  history, 
surely,"  returned  Beth  quietly,  as  she  crossed  to  a  seat.  "  And 
it  was  your  love  for  France  which  made  you  choose  diplomacy 
as  a  profession,  monsieur  1" 

"  No ;  I  entered  the  career  in  obedience  to  my  father."  A 
cloud  of  remembrance  took  the  light  from  his  face,  but  he  con- 
tinued cheerfully  :  "  The  work  suits  me.  It  brings  into  action 
each  quality  of  the  mind,  and  gives  occupation  to  one's  thoughts. 
It  is  also  a  position  of  considerable  power." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Beth.  "  If  I  had  been  a  man  I  should 
have  tried  to  be  a  statesman.  Why,  everything  is  in  their 
hands.  They  crystallise  theories  into  action,  and  show  the  result 
in  a  State." 

"  Where  did  you  find  that  idea,  mademoiselle  1 " 

"  Where  should  I  ?    In  my  brain,  I  suppose." 

"  It  is  an  excellent  brain  if  there  are  many  such  thoughts 
in  it."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  Do  women  take  much 
interest  in  politics  in  America  ?"  he  asked  then  of  Mrs.  Trescott. 

"  Some  do ;  Beth,  for  instance.  She  is  like  her  mother  in 
that.  I  never  could  take  the  trouble  to  originate  any  ideas. 
Of  course  I  could  have  done  it  had  I  taken  the  trouble  !  Cela 
va  sans  dire.  It  was  only  during  our  war  that  I  kept  trace  of 
affairs.  Then,  I  assure  you,  women  were  interested  !" 

"  And  then  it  was,  doubtless,  that  mademoiselle  first  took 
her  interest  in  la  politique  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly  ;  a  child  of  four  years  ! " 

"  Patriotism  can  burn  in  a  child's  heart  as  well  as  in  a 
woman's,"  said  Beth ;  "  and  I  can  remember  well  my  ambition 
to  do  something  for  the  soldiers,  and  putting  my  whole  little 
strength  into  making  pincushions  ! " 

"  You  should  have  her  marry  a  statesman,  madame." 

"  Ah !  she  will  marry  whom  she  chooses  without  being 
much  influenced  by  me,  I  fear.  And  I  don't  want  her  to  marry 
for  ever  so  long  yet.  What  should  I  do  without  her  ? " 

"  What  indeed,"  murmured  M.  d'Isten. 

Beth  had  been  wandering  around  the  room,  and  did  not  hear 
these  last  phrases,  which  were  spoken  in  an  undertone.  The 
sun  had  set  in  a  golden  radiance,  and  the  twilight  now  grew 
and  deepened.  Beth's  white  dress  shone  dimly  in  the  darkening 


CHAP,  ix.]  .A  DETEKMINATION.  85 

atmosphere ;  and  as  the  breaking  up  of  this  dreamy  period 
drew  near,  as  the  delicious  perfumes  of  the  garden  were  drifted 
through  the  open  windows,  as  Kene'  d'Isten  thought  of  them  and 
they  of  leaving  Florence,  a  silence  commenced,  and  grew,  and 
lingered,  until  not  one  of  the  three  knew  how  to  break  it. 

Who  can  say  what  impulse  it  was  that  made  Bethesda  go 
to  the  piano  and  let  fall  on  the  stillness  a  low,  minor  melody, 
which  bore  these  words  : — 

"  Parle-moi ;  que  ta  voix  me  touche ; 
Chaque  parole  sur  ta  bouche, 
Est  un  echo  melodieux  ; 
Parle-moi !  parle-moi ! 

"Quand  ta  voix  meurt  dans  mon  oreille, 
Mon  §,me  resonne,  et  s'eveille, 
Comme  un  temple,  a  la  voix  de  Dieu. 
Parle-moi !  parle-moi !" 

Her  hands  slipped  from  the  keys  when  she  had  finished,  and 
she  sat  motionless,  unsatisfied. 

The  wide  regret  of  her  nature  for  Italy,  the  sympathetic 
sorrow  for  this  man,  which  was  hardly  more  than  a  wistful 
wonder,  the  yearning  for  something  steady  throughout  change, 
secure  beyond  pain,  found  too  restricted  a  meaning  in  the  words 
she  had  sung ;  but  the  pathos  of  the  music  stole  into  every 
vein  and  made  her  heart  swell. 

Kene'  d'Isten  was  watching  her  as  she  sat  against  the  win- 
dow. His  arms  were  crossed  and  pressed  close  to  his  slow- 
throbbing  breast.  He  noted  every  tremor  of  the  fine  lips ;  he 
saw  how  the  eyes  grew  big  with  moisture,  and  the  long  lashes 
feared  to  move ;  and  he  saw,  and  grasped,  a  fixed  resolve. 

"  Are  we  all  spellbound  ? "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Trescott,  rising 
with  an  abrupt  rustle  of  silken  skirts.  "King  for  candles, 
please,  Beth ;  that  will  send  away  the  spirits.  I  don't  like 
ghosts." 


86  BETHESDA.  [PART  I. 


CHAPTER   X. 

It  has  been  remarked  that  in  life,  as  in  music,  if  two  cannot  strike  the 
same  note,  or  repeat  it  in  different  octaves,  there  must  be  a  certain  distance 
to  avoid  discord.  But  when  they  harmonise,  there  is  an  unsubstantial 
link  which  is  inexpressible,  yet  unbreakable;  unbeseechable,  yet  ever 
besought.  Where  sympathy  fails,  nothing  can  join  ;  where  it  joins, 
nothing  can  separate. 

"  Merue  quand  1'oiseau  marche,  on  sent  qu'il  a  des  ailes." 

THE  last  Florentine  morning  dawned  with  a  soft  effulgence ; 
the  sky  was  of  rose-leaves  and  marigolds,  the  earth  tremulously 
sweet  and  fresh. 

Bethesda  was  up  early,  and  while  the  dew  still  sparkled  on 
the  creamy  roses  she  went  into  the  garden  for  a  parting  reverie. 
She  could  not  be  sad  with  all  this  joyous  beauty  around  her, 
but  neither  could  she  fully  respond  to  its  gladness.  She  let  her 
eyes  follow  the  forms  of  trees  and  slender  campanili  to  the  deep 
sky,  and  rest  there  with  a  yearning  too  impersonal  for  sorrow  or 
pleasure.  The  sea  affected  her  in  the  same  way;  the  ocean 
stretching  out  to  the  sky,  the  sky  curving  down  to  the  sea, 
seemed  to  her  like  a  great  truth  bending  over  an  earnest  mind, 
and  she  never  wearied  of  such  sublime  monotony.  It  was  with 
reluctance,  therefore,  that  she  obeyed  her  aunt's  imperious  sum- 
mons to  breakfast. 

It  was  a  fussy  meal,  for  Mrs.  Trescott  was  troubled  by  many 
things,  although  nearly  everything  was  ready  for  their  evening 
start. 

"  Can  I  relieve  you  in  any  way,  Aunt  Mabel  V  asked  Beth 
as  they  rose  from  the  table. 

"  No,  no ;  nothing.  I  must  do  it  all  myself,  except  what 
Graziella  can  do  better  than  either  of  us.  You  tend  to  your 
own  things,  and  leave  mine  to  me." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  girl  quietly,  and,  having  thus  seen 
how  the  land  lay,  presently  took  Assunta,  and  went  to  hear 
some  music  that  she  knew  was  to  be  finely  rendered  at  the 
Sautissima  Annunziata. 

She  found  a  prie-dieu  in  the  shadows  of  one  of  the  great 
columns,  where  she  had  the  wide  nave  before  her,  with  its  altar 


CHAP,  x.]  YEARNINGS.  87 

lights,  and  clouds  of  rising  incense ;  but  other  things  made  only 
a  slight  impression  upon  her  when  the  music  began. 

The  soaring  tenor  notes,  the  throbbing  pain  of  the  baritone, 
the  earthly  despair  of  the  bass ;  the  organ  sending  its  dirge-like 
tones  through  the  solemn  arches,  which  now  echoed  to  the  joyous 
peal  of  resurrection,  and  again  to  the  subsiding  hush  of  peace 
attained, — to  all  this  Bethesda  responded  with  a  spellbound 
intensity;  and  as,  at  last,  she  bent  her  head  on  the  cushion 
before  her,  who  will  say  that  the  great  yearning  in  her  heart 
was  not  a  prayer  ? 

When,  a  while  later,  Beth  came  out  of  the  shadowy  church, 
with  its  atmosphere  of  holiness,  into  the  hot  square,  where  the 
statue  of  the  Grand  Duke  whom  Browning  has  immortalised 
ever  looks  up  to  the  window  in  which  his  once-bespoken  and 
never-forgotten  love  sat  day  after  day  to  receive  the  salute 
which  was  their  only  intercourse,  M.  d'Isten  stepped  to  her 
side.  She  welcomed  him  with  a  quiet  glance.  There  was  no 
shrinking  now,  no  sense  of  being  jarred.  She  even  pursued  her 
own  train  of  thought  uninterrupted. 

"You  said,  mademoiselle1?"  questioned  her  companion 
presently,  as  they  walked  home  together,  Assunta  following. 

"  1 1     I  did  not  speak,"  she  replied. 

"I  thought  there  was  a  question  you  would  ask  me,"  he 
answered  with  calm  assurance. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  smiling,  "I  understand  now.  My 
sister  has  a  way  of  saying :  What  would  you  say  if  you  said  it? 
You  are  doing  the  same." 

He  did  not  mind  being  found  out ;  all  he  said  was  : 

"Well?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  ask  you But  it  might 

help— 

"  You  were  thinking  of  the  sermon  we  just  heard  ?" 

"  No,  not  of  the  sermon.  I  don't  care  for  those.  They 
seem  rather  to  interfere  than  to  assist.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
symbolism  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  how  beautiful  it  was." 

"Yes?" 

And — and  I  was  wondering  if  that  was  what  satisfied 
Catholics.  How  can  it?"  She  was  growing  bolder  now. 
"  There  must  be  something  more  to  grasp ;  they  cannot  be  con- 
tent with  just  this." 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  there  is  faith." 


88  BETHESDA.  [PAET  i. 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  your  faith,"  she  answered  slowly.  "  You 
all  rest  on  what  the  Church  gives  you,  without  looking  into  it. 
You  don't  feel  the  need  to  see.  It  must  be  very  restful." 

"  If  we  inquire,  Miss  Bethesda,  what  should  we  find  more 
than  the  Church  gives  us  ?  And  if  less,  why  should  we  wish  to 
know  that  ?  We  must  be  like  little  children,  and  believe." 

"  Ah,  but  I  can't ! "  she  cried  in  a  low  tone,  that  expressed 
more  than  Rene"  d'Isten  could  understand.  "  One  can't  be  a 
child  for  ever ;  one  cannot  accept  blindly — 

"  But  the  Church  sees ;  one  can  follow  her,"  he  said  softly. 

She  shook  her  head,  but  did  not  reply.  He  did  not  under- 
stand her ;  it  was  impossible  that  he  should,  different  as  had 
been  their  religious  educations,  different  as  were  their  character 
in  this.  Bethesda  could  obey  until  she  began  to  doubt ;  then 
her  doubt  must  be  solved  before  she  could  again  trust.  Rene' 
accepted  some  things  as  he  did  his  nationality ;  it  was  not  a 
thing  to  be  disputed ;  there  could  be  no  doubts. 

The  same  evening  they  left  Florence,  and  at  the  train  was  a 
pleasant  surprise — at  least  to  some.  An  official  handed  Miss 
Hamilton  a  great  dewy  mass  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  which  he 
said  had  been  given  him  by  a  gentleman  who,  after  designating 
la  signora  when  she  left  her  carriage,  had  immediately  gone 
away. 

Beth  knew  then  that  Signer  Straora  was  aware  of  her 
departure,  and  she  sat  thinking  of  him  for  some  time.  Mon- 
sieur d'Isten  asked  Mrs.  Trescott  meanwhile  if  he  should  not 
open  the  window  ?  The  fragrance  of  the  flowers  was  somewhat 
heavy,  he  thought. 

Later,  when  Mabel  had  composed  herself  to  sleep,  Monsieur 
d'Isten  and  Bethesda  sat  divided  by  the  length  of  the  carriage, 
both  quite  still  for  hours,  thinking  and  feeling. 

Beth  realised  that  she  was  being  carried  onwards  to  an  un- 
known future,  a  new  life,  and  looked  back  with  a  curious  sad- 
ness that  was  not  pain  or  sorrow,  but  a  keen  appreciation  of 
what  this  life  in  Italy  had  brought  her,  and  an  instinctive 
shrinking  from  the  future.  She  did  not  feel  the  passionate 
dread  that  had  oppressed  her  in  entering  Florence,  but  rather  a 
passive  knowledge  that  fate  was  speeding  her  onwards,  irresistibly 
onwards,  as  the  train  through  the  night. 

It  was  a  mystic  scene  without  to  favour  this  illusion.  The 
meadows  and  hillsides  were  glittering  with  fire-flies,  as  if  the 


CHAP,  x.]  AEErVAL  IN  PAKIS.  89 

overheated  earth  were  sending  up  slow  sparks  of  fire ;  the  glow- 
worms burned  their  green  lamps  in  the  grass,  and  in  the  sky 
there  was  heat-lightning,  like  involuntary  thought.  Sometimes 
it  was  eerie  moonlight,  such  as  pure  elves  might  find  among  the 
ice-caverns  of  the  glaciers ;  again  it  lit  the  clouds  with  the 
flaming  rose  of  a  wild  hope ;  again  it  was  the  bright  amber  of 
assurance,  or  the  rich  purple  of  suffering  made  into  joy;  and  at 
times  it  seemed  to  the  entranced  girl  like  a  vision  of  heaven 
itself. 

Meantime  M.  d'Isten's  busy  brain  was  working  as  incess- 
antly, and  creating  as  marvellous  visions  in  his  own  mind.  The 
future  was  his  thought,  and  there  was  all  the  difference  between 
him  and  Bethesda  that  lies  between  activity  and  passivity. 
She  was  feminine  in  her  readiness  to  be  worked  upon,  uncon- 
scious though  it  were,  and  Ren6  d'Isten  was  thoroughly  mascu- 
line in  the  vigour  with  which  his  mind  resolved  to  work. 

It  was  a  chilly  evening  when  they  arrived  in  Paris  thirty- 
six  hours  later.  The  city  had  always  been  a  distasteful  place 
to  Bethesda.  She  felt  a  dislike  to  it,  which  she  attributed  to 
the  frivolous  and  unclean  atmosphere  that  seemed  to  taint 
every  breath  of  Parisian  air.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  entangled 
in  the  meshes  of  a  French  novel  as  soon  as  the  gay  boulevards 
and  glaring  gaslights  came  in  sight. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  her  feeling  was  less  insistent, 
for  M.  d'Isten's  pleasure  in  a  return  to  his  capital  communicated 
itself  to  her,  and  the  rest  after  the  long  journey  was  certainly  a 
relief. 

Then,  too,  when  they  arrived  at  their  hotel,  the  same  at 
which  Mrs.  Trescott  had  first  met  M.  d'Isten,  and  were  shown 
to  the  large  salon  reserved  for  them,  they  saw  upon  the  table 
a  rich  basket  of  flowers  that  filled  the  air  with  a  fragrant 
welcome. 

M.  d'Isten  had  remained  below  a  few  moments,  and  when 
he  came  up  he  was  assailed  with  exclamations  of  praise  and 
gratitude  by  Mabel. 

"  In  memory  of  the  Flower  City,"  he  said,  with  a  smile, 
standing  framed  by  the  portieres,  hat  in  hand,  and  his  dark 
eyes  seeking  Beth,  who  had  not  spoken. 

"It  is  a  bit  of  dear  Italy  itself,"  she  said,  with  a  swift 
glance  of  thanks. 

"  That  is  good  !  et  apres  ?  " 


90  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  Apres  '/  "  echoed  Mabel,  "  what  can  there  be  aprds  f  " 

"  Not  the  deluge,  I  trust,"  he  returned,  still  waiting. 

Beth  had  looked  around  quickly,  and  now  espied  on  a  tiny 
table  in  the  corner,  half  hidden  by  the  wine -red  curtains,  a 
Venetian  vase  of  exquisite  delicacy,  containing  one  moss  rose. 

"  Ah  ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  have  found  the  apres  !  " 

11  Let  me  present  to  you  '  Bdthesda,'  mademoiselle,"  said 
M.  d'Isten,  now  joining  her.  "  This  rose,"  he  added,  "  contains 
my  criticism  and  my  thanks." 

He  watched  her  curiously  as  the  light  beamed  over  her 
face,  which  the  mention  of  her  writing  always  brought.  Some 
confusion  was  in  her  manner ;  then  she  said  : 

"  You  are  very  gentle  with  me,  monsieur.  I  appreciate  it,  be- 
lieve me.  And  how  lovely  the  flower  is  !  I  never  saw  a  white 
moss  rose  before  with  that  warm  colouring  towards  the  heart." 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  it,"  was  all  he  said. 

In  spite  of  this  good  understanding  on  their  arrival,  when 
there  was  no  room  for  anything  but  liking,  Kend  d'Isten  found 
Miss  Hamilton  difficult  to  win  from  her  instinctive  reserve — 
more  difficult  here  than  in  Florence.  The  truth  is,  that  he 
was  a  man  of  remarkable  personal  magnetism ;  and  a  woman 
of  as  positive  a  nature  as  Bethesda,  and  one  who  possessed  no 
little  mental  electricity  herself,  naturally  sprang  away  from  the 
attraction  to  which  she  had  for  a  time  half  unwillingly  and 
half  unconsciously  yielded. 

Quite  a  number  of  friends,  too,  were  glad  to  find  Mrs. 
Trescott  and  Miss  Hamilton  in  Paris,  and  insisted  on  having 
them  to  little  quiet  dinners  or  lunches,  and  called  on  them 
frequently.  But  M.  d'Isten  contrived,  through  his  intimacy 
with  Mrs.  Trescott,  always  to  make  one  at  the  impromptu 
entertainments  that  took  place  in  the  red  and  gold  salon.  He 
soon,  indeed,  made  himself  indispensable,  and  knew  how  to  aid 
the  ladies  unobtrusively,  as  well  as  how  to  avoid  any  appear- 
ance of  being  other  than  a  guest. 

Mrs.  Trescott,  who  enjoyed  leaning  when  she  felt  at  perfect 
liberty  to  change  her  attitude  at  any  instant,  found  him  "a 
great  comfort ; "  and  Beth  herself  could  not  help  but  notice  how 
much  more  smoothly  the  evenings  passed  when  he  was  present 
than  when  absent,  as  he  took  care  to  be  once  or  twice  after  he 
had  quietly  established  his  position. 

One  of  his  opportunities  to  break  through  Beth's  easy  and 


CHAP,  x.]  SPRING-GROWTHS.  91 

half -indifferent  reserve  he  improved  towards  the  end  of  the 
week.  They  happened  to  be  side  by  side  in  the  embrasure 
of  a  window,  and  he  detained  her  by  saying  : 

"  You  have  been  writing  to-day,  Miss  Be'thesda." 

"Why  should  you  think  that,  monsieur?"  she  asked,  a 
little  startled,  for  in  truth  she  had  spent  all  the  afternoon  on  a 
Parisian  letter. 

"  I  am  not  blind,"  he  answered,  noting  the  unusual  brilliancy 
of  her  eyes,  and  the  delicate  flush  in  her  cheeks. 

"Have  I  an  ink-blot  anywhere?"  she  exclaimed.  "That 
is  all  I  can  fancy  should  betray  me." 

"  I  give  you  credit  for  more  comprehension,  mademoiselle." 

"You  flatter  me,  monsieur." 

"  Presently  you  will  not  say  that." 

"  Ah,  you  are  a  prophet  as  well  as  a  seer  1 " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  You  find  a  great  heretic  in  me,  I  fear." 

"  I  shall  convert  you." 

"Self-depreciation  is  not  one  of  your  failings,  then?" 

"  There  are  some  things  one  may  know,"  he  said,  catching 
her  eyes  with  a  steady  grasp  of  his  own. 

Her  attention  was  aroused,  and  this  was  all  he  wanted. 
Indifference  is  the  one  thing  to  be  dreaded  when  one  wishes  to 
make  a  friend.  And,  during  the  long  hours  of  resurrecting 
spring  sunshine,  while  he  worked,  as  well  as  the  starry  nights, 
when  he  dreamed,  he  had  allowed  his  fancies  to  caress  the 
thought  of  securing  a  friendship  which  should  indemnify  him 
for  the  disappointments  life  had  given  him  to  bear. 

Mrs.  Trescott  could  not  at  all  take  this  place.  She  was  a 
charming  acquaintance — delightful  just  where  she  was.  There 
was  a  kind  of  camaraderie  between  them  which  was  piquant 
and  entertaining  to  both ;  but,  for  any  serious  friendship — for 
anything,  in  fact,  more  than  momentary  —  her  capriciousness 
could  not  be  relied  upon. 

Bethesda  was  "of  an  entirely  different  nature,  and  she  it 
was  of  whom  he  had  determined  to  make  a  friend — a  true 
"  American  "  friend.  He  had  established  a  committee  of  ways 
and  means  to  this  end  within  the  closed  portals  of  his  own 
mind,  and  it  held  its  •  meetings  frequently.  The  spring  (it 
seemed  sometimes  that  this  spring  had  lasted  for  months,  and 
again  it  seemed  but  an  hour  since  it  commenced)  had  entered 


92  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

into  him  with  its  restless  longings,  and  he  wished  something 
definite,  if  nothing  more  than  freedom  to  grow,  to  ensue. 

He  thought  he  should  accomplish  his  purpose  also,  for 
Bethesda  was  in  many  ways  as  transparent  as  crystal  to  him. 
He  saw  her  innocence,  her  earnestness,  her  purity,  with  as 
reverential  a  recognition  as  Indians  would  see  the  limpid  ball 
into  which  they  believe  pure  hands  can  roll  water.  He  also 
perceived  her  quick  distrust  when  anything  equivocal  came 
near ;  her  virgin  dignity  which  drew  itself  aside  from  anything 
she  felt  to  be  wrong ;  and,  in  full  view  of  these  facts,  he  here 
took  his  stand.  She  never  should  feel  anything  to  excite  her 
distrust  in  him.  He  had  seen  her  soul  step  back  in  her  eyes 
from  the  mere  approach  of  a  tainted  thought  or  glance ;  there 
was  a  terror  in  such  chastity — a  terror  and  a  glorious  pride  ! 
He  was  more  proudly  thankful  than  the  world  could  guess  that 
his  youth  had  not  been  squandered.  He  had  not  understood 
its  value  before ;  now  it  came  to  him  immeasurably  increased. 
She,  the  pure  Be'thesda,  whose  sensitiveness  felt  like  a  mirror 
the  blurring  of  a  too-close  breath,  should  become  his  friend  by 
the  exercise  of  their  best  selves ;  she  should  recognise  that  here 
was  something  higher  than  had  ever  appealed  to  her  before, 
and  "  awake  to  the  renown  "  of  her  own  perfect  womanhood. 

His  steel-like  determination  to  succeed  in  anything  he  had 
planned  made  the  affair  seem  to  him  a  fait  accompli,  at  the 
same  time  that  it  exerted  the  fascination  of  creation ;  and,  after 
the  departure  of  the  compatriots  who  had  claimed  so  much  of 
the  ladies'  attention,  his  deft  manipulation,  aided  by  Mrs. 
Trescott's  liking,  soon  succeeded  in  overcoming  Beth's  instinct 
to  hold  herself  aloof. 

The  days,  indeed,  presently  took  on  a  settled  method  which 
had  for  its  aim  to  bring  M.  d'Isten  and  the  ladies  together  as 
much  as  possible.  In  the  morning  shopping  and  various 
affaires  divided  them,  but  in  the  afternoon  they  would  take 
drives  to  the  Bois,  or  Passy,  or  some  of  the  other  lovely  and 
historic  environs  of  the  capital,  M.  d'Isten  being  now  the  host, 
and  returning  with  empressement  the  courtesies  he  had  received 
in  Italy. 

The  ladies  enjoyed  them  thoroughly.  Mrs.  Trescott  delighted 
in  the  brilliant  and  changing  life  of  Paris,  the  sense  of  being  deli- 
cately cared  for,  and  the  interesting  society  of  M.  d'Isten,  whom 
every  day  she  more  enthusiastically  liked.  Beth,  too,  felt  that 


CHAP,  x.]  OPINIONS.  93 

Paris  held  some  uncontaminated  pleasures  after  all.  The  reaction 
from  her  magnetic  repulsion  had  set  in  as  she  came  under  the 
sway  of  M.  d'Isten's  more  continual  presence,  and  her  miscon- 
ceptions of  him,  as  she  now  called  them,  had  all  faded  away 
like  the  morning  mists  when  the  sun  is  high.  She  allowed  her 
mind  to  open  to  him  without  fear — fear  indeed  never  suggested 
itself.  He  was  married,  and  she  knew  it ;  knew  too  that  he 
was  loyal  to  his  wife,  and  keenly  sensitive  to  every  tie  of 
honour.  They  often  spoke  incidentally  of  Madame  d'Isten,  and 
there  was  never  the  slightest  blame  in  his  accents,  or  anything 
but  interest  in  hers. 

The  girl  was  exceedingly  innocent,  not  through  ignorance, 
but  dauntless  faith  in  those  she  once  liked.  She  would  as  soon 
suspect  an  apple  tree  of  poisoning  her  as  a  friend  of  harming 
her.  Some  trees  did,  she  knew,  but  hers  was  not  of  that  kind. 
Nor  was  her  confidence,  in  this  instance,  unshared  by  others. 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte  would  be  charming  if  he  were  not  so 
deplorably  serious,"  said  a  French  lady,  whom  they  met  one 
day  at  the  house  of  an  American  resident. 

"Why,  we  find  him  very  cheerful  and  entertaining,"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Trescott. 

"  Oh,  for  that,  yes.  But  I  mean "  and  she  waved  her 

hand  airily.  "You  know  there  is  a  something  some  men 
have,  an  audacity,  an — I  know  not  what,  which  renders  them 
truly  irresistible  !  But  then  our  friend  is  not  frivolous  ;  he  has 
not  profited  by  Paris;  you  understand  ?  Au  contraire,  he  has  a 
position ! — and  a  reputation !  Eh,  bien,  I  wish  my  husband 
had  such  a  one!"  and  the  small-brained  exquisitely -dressed 
woman  actually  smothered  a  sigh. 

"  Do  you  know  his  wife  ? "  another  acquaintance  asked  Mrs. 
Trescott.  "No  ?  You  miss  little  !  It  did  not  cease  to  astonish 
all  the  world,  while  she  was  here,  the  attention  her  husband 
paid  her.  He  was  foolish  enough  to  be  a  lover  rather  than  a 
husband,  and  she,  of  course,  repaid  it  by  the  most  ill-mannered 
disagreeability.  Spanish,  you  know.  For  me,  I  don't  care  for 
those  fierce,  self-engrossed  southern  women.  She  does  not  come 
any  more  to  the  city,  and  we  do  not  grieve.  We  see  a  great  deal 
more  of  the  count !  " 

"  I  hope  we  may  never  meet  those  women  again ! "  ex- 
claimed Beth  indignantly,  when  they  were  driving  home. 

"You  probably  never  will,"   answered   Mabel   carelessly. 


94  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  But  I  am  glad  to  have  seen  them.  It  makes  one  proud  to 
know  a  man  of  whom  women  will  complain  in  that  way.  Oh, 
Beth,  we  have  a  good,  good  friend  in  Rend  ! " 

Meantime  the  spring  was  blossoming  fast  into  summer,  with 
the  vividness  of  new  life  on  every  leaf.  The  blue  skies  lifted 
themselves,  and  intensified  more  and  more  like  the  beloved 
Italy,  which  did  not  seem  far  away,  and  the  three  were  never 
weary  of  being  out  of  doors,  and  found  a  constantly -re- 
curring interest  in  the  patriotic  incidents  M.  d'Isten  would  tell 
them,  with  all  the  fervour  of  his  character  shining  in  his  face. 

They  were  mostly  tales  of  heroism,  courage,  and  self-abne- 
gation, and  Mabel  remarked  it  one  day. 

"  It  is  the  French  temperament,  auntie,"  said  Beth.  "  They 
are  always  sacrificing  themselves  for  some  noble  idea." 

M.  d'Isten  gave  her  a  glance  of  pleasure. 

"  It  isn't  much  self-sacrifice  usually,"  said  Mabel.  "  Glory 
is  their  goddess,  and"  when  anything  promises  to  bring  her  they 
don't  much  care  what  they  do." 

"  Oh,  madame  ! "  exclaimed  M.  d'Isten. 

"  It's  true,"  she  insisted.  "  See  how  you  overran  Europe, 
and  destroyed  your  much-lauded  liberte,  and  gave  them  all  only 
an  egalite  of  slavery,  and  no  fratemite  at  all !  And  that  is 
your  most  glorious  epoch  !  " 

"  It  may  well  be,"  exclaimed  Beth,  before  M.  d'Isten  could 
speak.  "  See  how  everywhere  they  went  the  people  rose  to  help 
them,  because  the  French  had  first  shown  them  how  tyranny 
and  manhood  are  opposed  !  There  is  not  a  monarch  in  Europe, 
not  even  the  Czar,  who  has  such  despotic  power  as  he  did  have, 
just  because  France  has  risen  and  pealed  through  the  Continent 
the  one  word  :  Freedom  !  It  is  the  '  Let  there  be  light '  of  the 
modern  world." 

Bethesda's  eyes  were  flashing  as  she  sank  back  in  her  seat. 
M.  d'Isten  had  an  expression  of  proud  gratitude  on  his  face,  and 
Mrs.  Trescott  laughed. 

"  Gracious,  child  !  what  an  explosion  !  I  didn't  know  you 
were  so  devoted  to  France  ;  what  has  happened  1 " 

"  You  know  I  have  always  admired  the  French,"  said  Beth, 
her  lips  quivering  with  that  sensibility  which  ever  delighted  M. 
d'Isten.  "  They  are  extremists,  may  be,  but  they  are  impas- 
sioned by  an  idea  as  no  other  nation  ever  was.  And  I  do  hate 
lukewarmness  !  " 


CHAP.  X.]  WHY  ?  95 

"  I  fancy  I  remember,"  mused  Mabel,  with  a  teasing  twinkle 
in  her  eyes,  "  a  certain  young  woman  who  wanted  to  kiss  the 
ground  when  she  landed  in  France  last.  My  dear,  it's  becom- 
ing dangerous.  I  shall  have  to  hurry  you  home ;  you  might 
like  France  best  yet !  " 

"  Never  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl,  her  cheeks  now  rosily  tinted, 
for  M.  d'Isten  was  watching  her  with  curiosity.  "  I  shall 
always  like  my  own  dear  land  best, — especially  when  I  am 
away  from  it." 

"  Ah  !  you  like  it  best  when  away  from  it  1  And  you  were 
glad  to  reach  our  France  1  That  is  good ! "  said  M.  d'Isten, 
with  immense  satisfaction. 

"  She  was  glad,  indeed.  You  ought  to  have  seen  her  in 
Dieppe,  just  crazy  at  being  back  again." 

"  It  is  true,"  acknowledged  Beth  ;  "  and  what  I  can't  un- 
derstand is  why  I  was  so  pleased  to  touch  France.  If  it  had 
been  Italy,  now.  But  then  I  did  not  particularly  like  France 
as  France.  I  had  not  been  in  it  enough,  you  know." 

She  added  this  apologetically,  with  a  glance  at  M.  d'Isteu. 
He  did  not  look  as  if  he  needed  any  apology ;  he  was  simply 
radiant.  He  bent  forward  to  arrange  some  wrap  for  her,  and 
there  was  a  new,  happy  security  in  his  manner.  He  always 
treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  frail  queen,  who  must  have  every 
wind  shielded  from  her  with  solicitude  ;  but  now  there  was  a 
delicate  tenderness  in  every  touch,  as  if  she  had  been  consigned 
to  his  protection. 

"You  have  forgotten  your  hatred  of  Paris,  haven't  you?" 
asked  Mabel. 

"  Yes,  I  like  it  now.  It  is  really  homelike  to  me.  Some- 
how, I  never  saw  it  this  way  before." 

M.  d'Isten  caught  his  breath,  and  did  not  dare  look  up.  He 
felt  an  inexpressible  relief  when  Mabel  remarked  : 

"  I  always  told  you  it  was  your  illness  that  prejudiced  you. 
I  read  you  pretty  well,  cherie  ;  you  can  trust  to  me." 

And  Bethesda  did  not  say  nay. 

They  drove  home  swiftly,  because  a  little  late.  Every  one 
was  hastening  to  dinner;  the  boulevards  were  full,  and  the 
shopkeepers  were  like  children  out  of  school.  The  labour 
and  struggle  of  the  day  seemed  on  every  side  to  give 
place  to  a  buoyant  sense  of  enjoyment  which  is  peculiarly 
French. 


96  BETHESDA.  [PART  I. 

"  This  is  the  hour  I  like  Paris  best,"  said  Bethesda.  "  How 
happy  each  one  seems  !  Don't  you  suppose  one  is  better,  truer, 
in  being  happy?" 

"  I  am  sure  one  is,"  answered  M.  d'Isten  gravely. 

"  Ah,  look  ! "  exclaimed  the  girl. 

They  had  rolled  out  from  the  Boulevard  into  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde,  and  now  the  broad  Elysian  Fields  rose  gently 
before  them,  lined  with  deep-green  trees,  bearing  spikes  of  rose 
and  snowy  bloom.  At  the  top  it  was  crowned  by  the  triumphal 
arch,  uplifted  against  the  sunset  sky,  and  seeming  the  gateway 
to  a  golden  world. 

Bethesda  leaned  forward  in  the  landau  to  catch  the  full  view ; 
the  light  irradiated  her  face,  and  brought  out  the  glory  of  her 
hair ;  her  eyes  gazed  at  the  dazzling  splendour  unblenchingly,  for 
she  felt  a  joy  that  made  her  strong  to  bear  any  radiance.  Her 
soul  seemed  to  expand  with  a  twofold  life,  and  leaped  within 
her.  She  felt  an  intense  desire  to  spring  forward  and  delay  the 
sun  in  its  setting,  just  that  time  might  let  her  drink  deeply  of 
the  happiness  this  hour  held. 

But  she  was  not  afraid  even  of  darkness,  and  as  they  sped 
up  the  avenue  amid  the  whirr  of  wheels  and  tramp  of  horses' 
feet,  she  watched  the  glowing  light  pale  without  fear.  She 
trusted  in  the  new  elixir  which  had  come  to  her  here. 

Ever  after,  the  fragrance  of  the  chestnut  blossoms,  and  the 
home-coming  atmosphere,  recalled  that  sight  in  magical  clearness. 
She  could  see  it  all,  and  she  could  feel,  too,  as  she  did  then 
almost  unnoticed,  Rend  d'Isten's  eyes  shining  upon  her. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

"Two  things  fill  me  with  awe — the  starry  heavens,  and  the  sense  of 
moral  responsibility  in  man. " — KANT. 

"  Choose  well,  and  your  choice  is 
Brief,  but  yet  endless." — GOETHE. 

THE  great  hour  came ;  finally,  of  course,  without  premedita- 
tion. 

Bethesda  had  done  much  writing  lately ;  nothing  connected 
except  her  letters,  but  many  scraps  of  felicitous  similes,  of  char- 
acter sketches,  of  word  painting ;  all  of  which  had  a  strain  of  un- 


CHAP,  xi.]  HEADINGS.  97 

conscious  pathos  in  them,  suggesting  that,  like  her  golden 
sunset  sky,  they  might  be  painted  only  on  the  material  of 
tears. 

She  had  much  thought  suggested  to  her  now,  for  every 
evening  Kend  d'Isten  read  aloud  to  them  from  some  French 
author,  introducing  them,  with  consistent  choice,  to  that  fine 
analysis  of  human  nature  which  makes  the  French  mind,  like 
the  Greek,  stand  alone.  He  read  in  a  manner  that  let  the 
words  fall  together  into  the  vividness  of  reality,  bringing  each 
thought  into  relief,  yet  combining  all  so  admirably  that  one  could 
not  detach  any  separate  expression  without  its  losing  much  of 
its  value. 

Then  there  would  be  discussions,  or  comparison  of  ideas,  on 
what  they  had  read,  in  which  opposing  views  would  be  brought 
forward  and  reconciled, — at  least  between  Bethesda  and  M. 
d'Isten.  He  was  verifying  preconceived  ideas  with  a  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things  which  was  indescribably  keen  ;  and  Beth- 
esda glided  from  surprise  to  surprise,  in  finding  that  M.  d'Isten 
had  a  multitude  of  opinions  like  hers,  only  more  developed  and 
posed ;  and  that  there  were  a  number  of  points  which  they  had 
each  reached  with  equal  certitude  by  widely -diverging  paths. 
Each  hour  showed  how  much  further  back  than  their  acquaint- 
ance dated  their  mutual  tendencies  toward  one  another.  It  was 
the  destiny  of  their  characters  that  they  should  meet. 

About  ten  every  evening  they  separated,  for  M.  d'Isten  had 
social  engagements  which  his  diplomatic  duties  did  not  allow 
him  to  neglect.  Politicians,  especially  where  the  intrigues  of 
Courts  lead,  well  understand  the  necessity  of  social  power  to 
compass  any  end  ;  and  the  very  charm  of  this  friendship  which 
now  subsisted  between  the  three  was  greatly  owing  to  the  fact 
that  in  no  way  did  it  interfere  with  former  duties  or  habits,  but 
simply  rounied  the  whole. 

Occasionally,  it  is  true,  Mrs.  Trescott  would  try  to  detain 
M.  d'Isten,  just  to  test  her  power  ;  but  he  understood  her  too 
well  to  yield ;  and,  if  she  played  the  abused,  he  was  always 
rewarded  by  at  least  Bethesda's  approval. 

So  the  days  and  evenings  came  and  went — smoothly,  sug- 
gestively, instructively — until  an  evening  in  the  last  of  May 
struck  its  date  ineffaceably  on  their  lives. 

Bethesda  had  been  writing  all  day,  hastening  to  send  off  a 
couple  of  delayed  letters.  It  had  been  difficult  for  her  to  fix 

H 


98  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

her  mind  on  the  incidents  she  needed,  and  she  was  tired.  She 
acknowledged  it  when  M.  d'Isten  inquired  if  her  pretty  work 
was  done,  that  she  should  sit  with  idle  hands  ? 

"  Tired  hands,  and  tired  brain  too,"  she  replied,  letting  her 
head  rest  on  the  back  of  her  wine-red  fauteuil.  "  Don't  read, 
please.  I  have  been  pinning  my  mind  so  assiduously  to  its 
work  to-day  that  it  is  full  of  holes,  and  ideas  would  go  through 
it  as  if  it  were  a  sieve.  Talk  to  us,  won't  you  1  Shan't  he, 
auntie  1 " 

"I  am  never  averse  to  that  form  of  entertainment,"  said 
Mabel,  smiling. 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  be  speaker  to-night,"  said  M.  d'Isten, 
his  long-contemplated  schemes  suddenly  crystallising  into  action. 
"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  have  been  doing  to-day  ?" 

He  addressed  Mrs.  Trescott,  but  moved  his  chair  so  that  he 
could  include  both  ladies  in  one  glance.  Madame  Mabelle  was 
fairly  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  her  silk  embroidery.  Bethesda 
sat  leaning  her  head,  with  its  low  masses  of  bronzed  gold,  in 
profile  against  the  passionate  colour.  She  looked  somewhat 
sad,  as  usual,  when  in  repose.  Her  hands  were  crossed  listlessly ; 
small,  maidenly,  firm  hands,  capable  of  all  devotion,  so  delicate 
yet  strong  were  they ;  and  her  eyes  rested  with  an  indistinct 
pathos  on  Rend  d'Isten's  face. 

It  seemed  to  him  then  that  a  current,  invisible,  mysterious, 
and  irresistible  united  them.  Her  glance  seemed  to  penetrate 
without  refraction  into  his  inmost  being.  But  his  soul  could 
not  open  to  it ;  not  quite  yet.  He  let  his  eyes  fall  as  he 
went  on : 

"  To-day  I  have  been  writing  also.  I  was  at  my  desk  be- 
fore six  o'clock.  You  are  surprised,  mademoiselle?  It  is 
not  so  unusual,  for  I  rise  early.  This  morning,  however,  I 
was  unusually  interested.  I  received  a  letter  last  evening 
from  Madame  d'Isten.  It  is  a  rare  occurrence  for  her  to  so 
favour  me,  and  it  held  me  awake  for  several  hours.  And  need 
I  say  so  long  a  time  could  not  pass,  without  my  also  thinking  of 
you?" 

His  glance  lingered  on  each  of  his  companions,  and  at 
last  rested  on  Bethesda's  hands.  When  he  spoke  it  was  with 
slow  emphasis. 

"  You  three  and  my  father  are  those  who  stand  together, 
and  alone,  in  my  gallery  of  the  world." 


CHAP,  xi.]  A  REVELATION.  99 

Madame  Mabelle  beamed  upon  him,  and  he  returned  it 
gratefully.  Bethesda  looked  at  him  in  momentary  surprise. 
How  could  she  belong  to  that  select  circle  1  But  of  course  it 
was  only  his  politeness. 

"  I  came  to  an  understanding  of  it  during  the  night,"  he 
went  on,  "  but  I  can  always  determine  best  in  writing,  so  I 
have  it  written  here.  May  I  read  you  a  little  V 

"  We  should  be  delighted,"  said  Mabel. 

"I  call  it :  My  Friends :  and  I  take  them  as  they  came  to  me." 

It  was  written  in  French,  of  course ;  its  delicacy  will  be 
ruined  by  translation,  but  it  must  be  done  for  truth's  sake. 

"My  father  is  my  friend  of  all  time.  He  has  held  ever 
before  me  the  inspiring  example  of  integrity  and  honour.  To 
him,  after  my  country,  are  due  my  allegiance  and  highest 
esteem. 

"  Louise  accepted  me  as  her  husband.  To  her  I  owe  will- 
ing service,  ready  sympathy,  untiring  care  and  affection. 

"Madame  Mabelle  has  conferred  upon  me  the  knighthood 
of  her  American  friendship.  To  her  I  lend  admiration  and 
deferential  homage.  I  may  add  that  she  has  given  me  much 
of  the  keenest  pleasure  of  my  existence. 

"  Bdthesda  is  my  intellectual  counterpart.  She  incites  me 
to  activity  in  every  field.  She  inspires  me  to  believe  I  am 
capable  of  doing  what  heretofore  I  have  only  dreamed.  She 
completes  each  half-formed  thought.  She  fills  the  ideal  form 
of  womanhood.  To  her  I  give  fealty,  reverence,  and  im- 
pregnable devotion." 

As  the  last  words  fell  from  his  lips  he  looked  up.  Bethesda 
had  grasped  the  arms  of  her  chair,  and  was  sitting  upright,  her 
eyes  dazzling,  and  her  cheeks  flushed. 

She  lost  remembrance  of  everything  previous  in  the  surprise 
of  that  last  paragraph.  She  was  amazed,  astounded ;  and  yet 
she  felt  it  was  true.  Her  eyes  did  not  sink  before  his  as  he  met 
her  quivering  glance.  It  quivered  through  every  barrier,  every 
veil,  to  the  real  core  of  the  man.  It  was  a  marvel  that 
he  could  bear  it  unshrinkingly,  but  his  long  education  served 
him  well  at  this  supreme  need.  He  saw,  and  knew,  and  under- 
stood ;  and  at  the  same  instant  held  fast  to  his  self-possession. 
He  was  not  afraid  of  what  she  should  see,  and  he  was  aware 
now  of  what  he  should  do. 

Mrs.  Trescott  watched  them  in  some  confusion.     This  was 


100  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

an  unexpected  tearing  away  of  the  veil  for  her.  It  not  only 
surprised  her,  but  aroused  some  alarm.  What  did  it  all  mean  1 
And  where  might  it  lead  ?  As  long  as  the  paramount  attraction 
in  the  tripartite  friendship  was  held  to  be  herself,  she  had  no 
fears.  Was  she  not  nine  years  his  elder  ?  But  here  sprang 
up  danger.  The  little  piece  of  paper  had  sent  a  lightning 
flash  over  the  land,  and  disclosed  it  to  be  a  strange  one,  where 
she  had  supposed  it  thoroughly  familiar. 

She  looked  keenly  from  one  to  the  other  with  her  now 
black  eyes. 

Beth  was  certainly  excited,  and  as  certainly  pleased.  To 
inspire  such  a  man's  intellect  was  no  small  thing ;  the  trouble 
might  be,  was  it  not  too  great  a  thing  ? 

She  turned  to  him.  There  was  some  excitement  mani- 
fest in  his  manner  also,  but  he  was  gravely  answering  Beth's 
eager,  deprecatory  questions  as  to  how  it  could  be  true,  by 
showing  her  that  her  American  birth,  her  education,  her  life, 
had  all  combined  to  make  her  a  new  person  to  him,  and 
one  who  appealed  strongly  to  what  he  was  pleased  to  name 
his  unwarmed,  but  not  insensible  mind. 

"Your  mental  vigour,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "when  you 
are  so  fragile,  inspired  me  with  admiration  before  I  had 
ever  seen  you ;  and  since  there  has  been  conferred  upon  me 
the  pleasure  of  an  intimate  acquaintance  my  impression  has 
been  indelibly  fixed.  This  is  one  of  the  pleasures  Madame 
Mabelle  has  given  me." 

He  looked  towards  her  with  a  smile,  and  some  hidden 
anxiety. 

"  I  hope  it  will  always  be  a  pleasure,"  she  said  seriously. 

"You  are  good,"  he  answered,  purposely  misinterpreting 
her  phrase.  He  took  her  hand,  and,  rising,  kissed  it. 

"  Be  careful,"  she  said,  in  a  warning  tone  so  low  that  pre- 
occupied Beth  did  not  hear. 

He  gave  her  a  sharp,  inquiring  glance.  She  shook  her 
head  in  doubt. 

"  See,"  said  he  in  a  reassuring  voice,  seating  himself  in  his 
old  position,  and  spreading  out  his  hands  with  a  frank  gesture, 
"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  have  in  my  mind.  Ever  since  I  was  a 
boy  I  have  been  fond  of  literature,  but  I  have  not  had 
sufficient  faith  in  myself  to  pursue  it  as  a  career.  I  am  not 
satisfied  that  my  thoughts  are  original  or  worth  recording,  or 


CHAP.  XL]          A  DOUBLE  FOCUS.  101 

my  fancies  either  poetical  or  just.  In  spite  of  these  doubts 
I  have  written  some,  and  have  felt  a  new  power  since  I  have 
known  Miss  Be'thesda.  With  this  in  view  I  have  a  sug- 
gestion to  make.  It  has  been  gradually  maturing  in  my  mind 
until  I  am  convinced  of  its  success." 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other  to  judge  what  might 
be  safe  to  say.  Bethesda  was  all  eager  anticipation,  with 
a  shadow  of  humility  softening  her  face.  Mabel,  relieved 
by  his  words  and  manner,  had  resumed  her  work.  He  pro- 
ceeded : 

"  Mademoiselle  is  about  to  return  to  America ;  her  corre- 
spondence will  then  be  stopped,  you  tell  me.  I  propose,  to  avoid 
this,  that  in  my  letters  to  you,  madame,  I  shall  enclose  some 
pages  of  incidents,  which  I  am  fortunately  situated  for  obtain- 
ing, and  which  she  can  then  mould  and  amplify  as  she  would 
her  own  notes.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  madame  1" 

"  It  would  be  very  lucky  for  her,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Mabel. 
There  was  no  danger  in  this. 

"  But  do  you  think  I  could  do  it  V  hesitated  Beth. 

"  Certainly,"  was  M.  d'Isten's  prompt  response.  "  They 
should  be  identical  with  your  own  notes.  You  know  the  life 
here,  and  could  give  them  fulness  and  colour  to  perfection. 
The  political  portions  I  would,  if  you  desired,  write  out  more 
amply.  You  could  undoubtedly  make  it  successful." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  couldn't,"  added  Mabel. 

"  I  had  not  expected  to  do  anything  for  the  papers  when  I 
went  home,"  remarked  Beth,  still  timidly.  "  I  thought  I  would 
try  magazine  articles,  or  stories,  perhaps." 

"  There,  too,  I  could  aid  you,"  persisted  M.  d'Isten.  "  Your 
ideas  are  different,  and  yet  in  many  ways  the  same  as  mine. 
We  study  humanity  from  a  similar  point  of  view.  You  ana- 
lyse and  idealise  man  as  I  analyse  and  idealise  institutions. 
We  appreciate  the  same  characteristics  ;  we  admire  the  same 
qualities.  But  you  are  a  woman  —  I  am  a  man  ;  we  will, 
necessarily,  see  different  sides  of  life ;  we  will  have  different 
experiences.  I  could  give  you  suggestions,  with,  perhaps,  some 
virile  force,  and  you  could  lend  them  body,  and  form,  and 
grace.  It  would  make  your  books  have  an  unusual  character, 
and  give  them  the  power  of  appealing  to  a  larger  audience, 
mademoiselle." 

"  Indeed  it  would,"  exclaimed  Bethesda,  catching  a  glimpse 


102  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

of  how  much  wealth  would  in  this  way  reach  her  work,  and 
how  much  good  might  be  done  by  it.  "I  wonder  if  it  could 
be  accomplished." 

"  Why  not  ?  We  could  at  least  try,  and  I  have  no  doubts 
of  the  result.  If  we  accustom  ourselves  to  write  together,  I 
am  convinced  it  will  be  an  imperative  need  not  again  to  be 
eliminated.  My  trust  is  not  wholly  unfounded,"  he  added, 
after  a  moment's  pause  ;  and  then  he  told  them  of  the  feuille- 
tons  he  had  written ;  that  others  had  been  solicited,  but 
refused,  because  he  was  himself  dissatisfied  with  them. 

"  I  know  now  that  this  is  what  I  have  always  desired. 
You  could  round  my  whole  intellectual  life,  Miss  Be'thesda  ; 
you  could  develop  sources  of  enjoyment  and  benefit  which 
never  have,  nor  ever  could  be,  otherwise  developed ; — and  who 
can  say  what  benefit  may  accrue  to  others,  from  thoughts 
thus  combined,  and  perceptions  doubled  in  strength  and 
feeling?" 

He  was  bending  upon  her  the  whole  force  of  his  will,  and 
the  magnetism  to  which  she  was  so  sensitive.  He  held  her 
under  the  control  of  his  mind,  as  it  were,  but  with  the  con- 
sent of  her  own  will,  free  from  all  other  influences.  The 
existence  which  animated  him  was  no  longer  simple,  but 
complex ;  he  had  no  consciousness  outside  the  focus  of  this 
concentrated  life.  It  must  be. 

Bethesda  rose  and  paced  the  room  to  and  fro.  Her  hands 
were  clasped  behind  her  ;  warm  colour  was  in  her  cheeks,  and 
her  eyes  gleamed  with  constantly -changing  lights.  Each 
instant  she  raised  them  to  M.  d'Isten's  intent  face,  as  if 
studying  and  appealing  to  him  at  the  same  time. 

It  was  an  immense  temptation.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  absolutely  in  consonance  with  her  tastes  (didn't 
Rene"  d'Isten  know  this  ?)  ;  to  help  another,  to  please 
one  she  liked,  to  be  of  use,  were  passionate  desires  with 
her.  And  how  much  it  would  benefit  her  !  The  strength, 
and  surety,  and  precision  which  she  knew  she  lacked  would 
thus  be  gained ;  and  perhaps  sometimes,  as  he  said,  it  might 
do  good. 

There  is  a  vigour  of  purpose,  a  vivid  comprehension  of  the 
difference  one  soul  can  make,  that  infuses  youth  with  a  grandeur 
all  its  own.  Each  soul  is  the  possible  pivot  on  which  the 
world  may  turn,  and  youth  feels  this  with  an  intensity  which 


CHAP,  xi.]  FEARS.  103 

make  promises  seem  deeds,  and  tendencies  fulfilment ;  and 
Bethesda  was  in  the  glamour  of  all  this  now.  But  could  it  be 
done  ?  There  were  a  thousand  difficulties  which  she,  her  mind 
suddenly  enlightened,  could  apprehend  ;  and  which  he,  per- 
haps, did  not.  In  any  case  hers  would  be  the  responsi- 
bility, and  if  he  were  not  content ?  She  suggested  this 

frankly. 

"  But  I  should  be,"  he  answered  with  emphasis.  "  My 
part  would  always  be  one  of  suggestion  :  nothing  less,  nothing 
more.  You  would  have  absolute  freedom  to  accept  or  reject 
any  expression,  any  idea.  And  what  you  did  I  should  not 
question.  To  me  it  would  be  right  because  you  did  it." 

"  No,  no ;  I  must  have  the  benefit  of  your  criticism,  as  you 
say  you  wish  mine.  I  shall  need  it  vastly  more." 

"But  it  would  not  be  feasible,"  he  replied  firmly.  "I 
shall  send  you  everything,  and  you  could  not  send  it  back 
before  publication.  No;  what  I  once  give  you  is  yours  for  ever. 
You  can  keep  it  or  discard  it.  You  do  with  it  what  you 
choose." 

They  talked  the  plan  over  a  long  time.  Mrs.  Trescott, 
because  this  concerned  others  entirely,  and,  perhaps,  for  another 
reason,  saw  more  clearly  than  the  others  where  it  tended.  Her 
fears,  dispelled  at  first  by  M.  d'Isten's  business-like  manner, 
returned  as  this  remarkable  conception  took  form  and  reality 
before  her.  All  confused  as  the  fears  were,  they  made  her 
uneasy.  She  asked  each  of  them  to  write  out  calmly  the  con- 
ditions of  this  compact,  and  follow  it  out  to  its  furthest  results ; 
they  would  be  better  able  then  to  judge  whether  it  were 
advisable  to  consolidate  it.  She  even  suggested  to  Eene  the 
specific  danger  of  future  developments.  This  was  when  Beth 
had  gone  to  her  room  for  something.  She  returned  before  he 
had  time  to  answer,  but  his  dignified  self-possession  and  un- 
ruffled security  again  calmed  her — especially  as  they  acquiesced 
in  her  suggestion  without  hesitation. 

But  they  were  both,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  deter- 
mined to  carry  out  the  plan.  Kene"  d'lsten  had  long  ago 
resolved  upon  it,  and  Bethesda  was  swayed  to  forget  the 
scruples  which  only  questioned  her  own  inability,  and  to  enter 
into  it  with  enthusiasm. 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  would  on  one  transformed 
in  her  sight.  All  their  intercourse  suddenly  took  on  a  new 


104  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

meaning.  Her  place,  from  being  that  of  a  casual  friend,  below 
many  others,  was  changed  to  that  of  one  elected  to  stand  alone 
by  the  side  of  this  man, — alone,  separated  from  the  whole 
world,  as  his  intellectual  companion. 

Rene'  d'Isten  hardly  dared  to  glance  at  her ;  he  was  con- 
scious in  every  fibre  of  his  being  that  she  recognised  her 
position, — that  she  had  already  left  her  aunt,  her  friends,  her 
former  associations,  her  old  self,  to  step  into  the  richness  of  her 
womanhood,  and  take  the  place  he  had  chosen  her  to  fill.  Be- 
cause of  the  very  intensity  of  this  knowledge  he  ignored  it, 
and  shielded  himself  in  his  consummate  self-control. 

All  his  skill  was  needed  in  winning  over  Mrs.  Trescott.  She 
was  of  a  deeply  jealous  temperament ;  he  knew  half  of  her 
uneasiness — which  he  clearly  understood,  and  also  its  well- 
founded  reasons — was  an  unconscious  stirring  of  this  fatal 
poison.  It  is  human  nature,  he  told  himself,  to  dislike  seeing 
some  one  unexpectedly  preferred  before  oneself.  Heretofore 
he  had  been  her  especial  friend ;  through  this  evening's  work  he 
became  far  more  closely  united  to  her  niece.  It  was  human 
nature  in  him  also,  that  her  preoccupation  and  visible  uneasiness, 
thus  explained  by  him,  should  flatter  him  enough  to  make  him 
throw  much  earnestness  into  his  persuasion,  and  to  use  eloquence 
with  the  finest  art.  It  was  highly  necessary,  moreover,  that 
she  should  be  won  to  their  plan ;  which,  in  the  present  stage, 
could  not  go  on  without  her  ;  so,  with  the  most  delicate  dis- 
crimination, he  allayed  the  fears  she  never  suspected  had  been 
aroused,  and  won  her  to  a  tacit  consent  "in  the  experiment. 

They  were  surprised,  at  last,  by  midnight.  M.  d'Isten 
took  a  hasty  and  apologetic  leave.  Mabel  detained  Beth,  after 
he  had  gone,  to  warn  her  to  look  carefully  before  she  bound 
herself  to  this  compact.  What  if  she  should  find  this  in- 
tellectual companionship  meant  more  to  her  than  she  now 
thought  it  would  1  What  if  it  should  make  her  unhappy  ? 
Supposing  it  filled  her  mind  so  as  to  keep  her  from  marrying  1 
Think  what  a  lonely  life  that  would  be.  She,  herself,  without 
husband  or  children,  often  found  life  hard,  and  yet  she  had 
had  her  nieces  to  educate.  She  did  not  want  to  see  her  darling, 
whom  she  had  sheltered  so  long,  saddened  in  the  brightest 
period  of  her  life.  She  wanted  her  to  be  always  a  sunbeam, 
carrying  light  and  pleasure  wherever  she  went. 

At  these  tender  words  Beth  embraced  her  aunt,  and  pro- 


CHAP,  xi.]  FEELINGS  OR  THOUGHTS?  105 

mised  her  she  would  think  ;  she  would  confront  the  question  in 
its  whole  extent,  and  judge  without  bias. 

And  Mabel  sent  the  girl  off  to  bed,  feeling  as  if  an  earthquake 
had  taken  place,  and  that  her  little  girl's  life  had  suddenly 
diverged  far  from  hers.  But  she  would  resign  herself  if  only 
the  child  might  be  happy. 

Bethesda,  once  in  her  own  room,  did  not  think  of  sleep. 
There  were  two  windows — one  looking  out  on  the  street,  the 
other  over  a  garden  full  of  trees,  fragrant  bushes,  and  vines. 
Some  of  the  Virgin  Vine  wreathed  the  arched  window  and  crept 
in  over  the  low  sill.  She  went  and  knelt  there,  leaning  her 
arms  among  the  tendrils,  the  first  of  many  times  when  the 
small  hours  found  her  in  the  same  position. 

She  felt  as  if  her  mind  had  an  immensity  as  large  as  the 
deep-blue  heavens,  and  with  as  many  points  of  palpitating 
white  light.  They  might  be  worlds,  or  they  might  be  unknown 
fires ;  she  scarcely  cared  which.  The  universe  was  filled  with 
the  glad  exultation  now  thrilling  through  her.  Her  heart 
throbbed  with  swift  fulness ;  her  limbs,  even  as  she  knelt, 
trembled  under  her ;  yet  she  felt  a  conquering  strength,  an 
illimitable  power  of  action  and  devotion  which  caught  her  up 
into  an  uncalculating  rapture. 

Gradually,  however,  the  hour,  the  silence,  the  distant 
stars,  calmed  her.  She  began  to  think  instead  of  only  feeling, 
and  finally  rose,  lit  candles,  and  paced  up  and  down  her  room. 

In  writing  thus  together  it  would  become  of  great  value  to 
both  of  them  undoubtedly.  But  just  here  came  a  danger,  as 
Aunt  Mabel  suggested.  If  they  met  and  harmonised  thoroughly 
in  intellect,  was  there  not  a  possibility  of  their  meeting  in  other 
ways,  warmer  and  more  perturbed  ? 

For  him  1 — he  must  decide. 

For  herself  1 — Well,  she  found  him,  outside  their  compact, 
a  noble,  unselfish,  and  pure  man.  He  was  strong ;  he  had 
conquered  himself,  and  thus  gained  the  force  to  conquer  others. 
He  grasped  her  with  quiet  firmness  ;  he  appealed  to  much  of 
what  she  believed  was  the  best  in  her  ; — but  this  all  mentally 
and  morally.  She  wondered  sometimes  that  she  did  not  have 
to  guard  herself  more  with  him  ;  the  secret  was  that  there  was 
nothing  against  which  she  needed  protection.  They  met  as 
minds  alone,  and  would  do  so  more  and  more  as  their  inter- 
course was  confined  to  that  only.  Of  this  she  felt  sure. 


106  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

But  taking  it  at  the  uttermost ;  supposing  that  she  would 
find  no  man  who  could  efface  him,  so  but  that  he  would  stand 
high  above  them  all ;  supposing  that  the  thought  of  him  should 
prevent  her  marrying ; — what  then  ? 

He  was  noble ;  it  would  not  be  degrading  to  admire,  even 
to  love,  mentally,  a  married  man,  so  that  they  remained  ever 
on  those  heights  where  base  fogs  could  not  reach  them.  It 
could  do  no  harm ;  he  would  never  know  it,  or,  in  knowing  it, 
would  recognise  it  as  a  crystal-pure  affection  that  contained  no 
danger  to  either  of  them.  And  she  would  have  a  noble  ideal, 
a  cultivated  mind,  a  self-sacrificing  life  to  love.  What  harm, 
almost  what  sorrow,  could  that  be  to  her  ?  It  would  be  a  lonely 
life,  perhaps  sad,  but  an  elevated  one,  which  would  in  the  end 
raise  her  from  the  tumult  of  an  impulsive  woman's  existence  to 
serene  heights,  whence  a  wider  vision  of  the  world  could  be 
obtained. 

She  wrote  the  argument  out  in  her  diary,  and  ended  it  with 
these  words  :  "  I  see  no  danger  that  can  deter  me.  I  accept 
the  compact." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"  Is  there  naught  better  than  to  enjoy  ? 
No  deed  which,  done,  will  make  time  break, 
Letting  us  pent-up  creatures  through 
Into  eternity,  our  due, — 
No  forcing  earth  teach  heaven's  employ  ? " 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

* 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday,  a  balmy  beautiful  day.  Everywhere 
was  the  atmosphere  of  festivity  which  characterises  a  Continental 
Sabbath.  All  the  world  intended  to  take  the  fullest  enjoyment 
from  the  mild  May  fete,  and  Mrs.  Trescott  and  Bethesda  were 
going  to  do  the  same.  It  had  become  a  custom  to  them  to  be 
out-of-doors  all  the  pleasant  Sundays  with  M.  d'Isten,  who  was 
then  free,  and  delighted  to  devote  his  whole  time  to  them. 
Often  they  went  to  church  to  hear  high  mass, — Mrs.  Trescott 
yielding  the  American  chapel  because  there  was  a  clergyman 
there  she  disliked, — and  then  wandered  out  into  the  country, 
or  to  some  of  the  pleasure-grounds  which  are  numerous  in  Paris, 
taking  a  light  luncheon  where  they  could  find  it,  and  sharing 
an  innocent  gaiety  with  the  people  of  the  great  city. 


CHAP,  xii.]  A  MOMENTOUS  ACCEPTANCE.  107 

Sometimes  they  spent  the  long  sunny  hours  in  a  country 
ramble,  driving  out  fairly  beyond  the  city,  and  then  strolling 
through  the  woods,  or  idling  under  the  trees,  or  visiting  rural 
farmhouses ;  many  of  which  were  afterwards  sent  intact  to 
America  by  Bethesda's  pen.  To-day,  however,  it  had  been 
previously  arranged  that  they  were  to  go  to  church ;  and,  after 
a  luminous  night's  rest,  when  she  never  fell  so  soundly  asleep 
but  that  she  was  conscious  of  an  unusual  brightness  in  her  mind, 
Beth  rose  and  took  her  coffee  alone.  It  was  not  until  the 
morning  was  well  advanced  that  her  aunt  appeared. 

"  Well,  cherie,  how  is  it  this  morning  1  Have  you  been  up 
writing  since  daybreak  1 " 

"  Not  quite,  auntie ;  one  does  not  need  to  rise  so  very  early 
to  be  ahead  of  you  ! " 

"  Impertinente  !  But  what  have  you  written  ?  Won't  you 
read  it  to  me  ? " 

Bethesda  paused  a  moment,  and  turned  over  the  pages 
thoughtfully  before  she  replied  : 

"  Yes,  if  you  like." 

"  I  would  very  much  like  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Trescott, 
seating  herself  opposite  Beth. 

She  watched  her,  trying  to  see  between  the  lines,  while  she 
listened  to  the  earnest  tones  in  which  the  young  woman  read 
what  she  had  written  before  she  slept.  Bethesda  finally  looked 
up  with  a  somewhat  solemn  bravery  in  her  eyes  as  she  pro- 
nounced the  words : 

"  I  accept  the  compact." 

Mabel's  face  was  curiously  tender  and  admiring. 

"  So,"  she  said,  with  a  long  breath  which  seemed  of  relief, 
"  you  have  decided.  I  hope  it  will  prove  all  you  think  it, 
darling."  After  a  moment  she  added  :  "I  wish  Rene'  could 
see  that." 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  Beth,  flushing. 

"  I  do  ;  all  but  the  very  last,  at  any  rate.  It  would  make 
him  understand,  and  appreciate  you  even  better  than  he  does." 

"  Do  you  think  the  last  is  wrong  ? "  asked  Bethesda,  with 
a  searching  glance. 

"No;  not  wrong.     Sorrowful,  maybe,  sweetheart." 

She  put  her  hand  on  Beth's  lap,  and  the  girl  took  it  in 
both  her  own. 

"  If  it  is  not  wrong,  I  won't  find  it  sorrowful,  rest  assured, 


108  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

auntie.  It  is  a  greater  richness  than  most  women  have  in 
their  lives.  Besides,  that  is  only  an  extreme  case,  which  I 
never  should  have  thought  about  if  you  had  not  suggested  it." 

She  met  her  aunt's  fond  gaze  with  open  sunniness. 

"  You  must  be  married  some  day,  dear,"  said  Mabel ;  "  but 
for  me — alack  the  day." 

"  You  wouldn't  be  sorry  if  this  kept  me  beside  you  1 "  asked 
Beth  archly, 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  don't  want  you  to  remain  unmarried.  It  is 
not  a  happy  life." 

Here  the  sound  of  a  knock  on  the  parlour  door  disturbed  them. 

"  It  is  M.  d'Isten  ! "  exclaimed  Bethesda.     "  We  are  late." 

He  had  come  to  see,  he  said,  if  they  still  had  the  desire  to 
go  to  church  1  Thanks,  he  would  not  come  in. 

"  You  wish  to  go,  Beth  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Trescott. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  greatly,"  was  the  answer. 

"  La  petite  devote  !  "  said  Kene",  smiling,  and  left  them. 

The  Madeleine  was  full  when  they  arrived.  M.  d'Isten 
took  them  in  by  a  side  entrance,  and  Mabel  was  seated  on  one 
side  of  the  small  door,  Bethesda  and  M.  d'Isten  on  the  other. 

Bethesda  had  brought  her  little  Imitation,  with  the  prayers 
in  the  front  and  directions  for  joining  in  the  mass.  It  was 
one  M.  d'Isteii  had  given  her.  She  was  in  a  devout  mood ;  she 
felt  an  unwonted  drawing  towards  religion.  There  was  a  deep 
yearning  for  communion  with  One  all-seeing  and  all-mighty ; 
with  One  who  could  guide  her,  absolutely,  to  the  best.  Con- 
science began  to  tremble  as  life  pressed  upon  her  with  new 
thoughts  and  new  questions.  Bethesda  had  yet  to  learn  that 
abstract  right  is  above  any  conscience,  and  that  it  we  must  obey. 
Principle  was  not  yet  developed  in  her.  The  instincts  of  her 
nature  were  true  and  noble,  but  the  quivering  needle  of  a 
compass  is  not  more  unsteady  in  comparison  to  the  polar  star, 
than  conscience  in  comparison  to  principle.  Let  some  iron 
force,  or  some  electric  current,  come,  and  the  index  hand  would 
point  far  from  due  north.  Even  at  the  best  sailors  are  obliged 
to  make  allowances  for  the  nails  in  their  own  ships,  as  well  as 
a  thousand  larger  things,  before  they  can  rely  upon  their  com- 
passes ;  and  the  bias  of  one's  own  nature,  beside  the  many 
influences  of  heredity  and  education,  makes  one's  conscience  a 
very  fallible  guide. 

But  this  was  all  unrecognised,  and  Bethesda  only  felt  the 


CHAP,  xii.]  A  FRIEND  OF  ALL  AGES.  109 

tendency  which  caused  her  to  lend  herself  reverently  to  the 
solemn  rites  performed  before  her.  She  and  M.  d'Isten  knelt 
and  rose  together ;  he  looked  over  the  tiny  book  she  held,  and 
read  what  she  read ;  occasionally  he  caught  her  eyes.  They 
were  full  of  a  deep  wistfulness ;  now  soothed  by  a  strengthen- 
ing line,  now  awed  by  the  mysterious,  majesty  of  the  music, 
and  the  sacrifice  offered  at  the  altar. 

These  symbols  appealed  to  her  profoundly,  but  she  could 
not  grasp  a  single  satisfying  idea.  They  soared  around  her, 
above  her,  like  the  music;  they  escaped  her  as  the  incense 
would  have  done  had  she  tried  to  hold  it ;  there  was  nothing 
she  could  touch,  nothing  she  could  make  hers. 

Again  the  question  came  to  her  :  M.  d'Isten  was  a  Catholic, 
could  he  really  hold  fast  by  this  1 

She  looked  up  straight  and  full  into  his  eyes.  The  glance 
startled  him  ;  he  did  not  understand  what  it  meant.  Here 
was  a  side  of  her  nature  which,  with  all  his  quick  perceptions, 
he  could  not  read. 

Her  eyes  fell,  disappointed.  She  turned  over  a  few  pages 
of  her  book  without  noticing  them.  Then  these  words  caught 
her  eyes  : 

"  By  two  wings  man  is  lifted  up  from  things  earthly : 
Simplicity  and  purity.  Simplicity  ought  to  be  in  our  inten- 
tion ;  purity  in  our  affection.  Simplicity  doth  seek  God ; 
purity  doth  find  and  apprehend  Him." 

"  See  ! "  she  whispered. 

Her  face  was  beaming;  her  eyes  shone  with  a  delicious 
sweetness.  He  looked  to  where  she  pointed.  Why  should 
these  words  have  produced  such  a  transfiguration  ?  Did  she 
really  want  God  so  much  1 

He  took  the  book  gently,  and  found  a  page  which  he  gave 
her  to  read. 

"  Love  is  a  great  thing,  yea,  a  great  and  thorough  good  ; 
by  itself  it  makes  everything  that  is  heavy  light,  and  it  bears 
with  equal  serenity  all  the  circumstances  of  life. 

"  Nothing  is  sweeter  than  love,  nothing  more  courageous, 
nothing  higher,  nothing  wider,  nothing  more  pleasant,  nothing 
fuller  nor  better  in  heaven  or  earth  ;  because  love  is  born  of 
God,  and  cannot  rest  but  in  God,  above  all  His  creations." 

Bethesda's  eyes  were  blind  with  tears  when  she  finished. 
How  well  he  understood  her !  If  she  only  could  love  God. 


110  BETHESDA.  [PARTI. 

Perhaps  she  did.  It  seemed  to  her  that  anything  would  be 
easy  to  bear  if  she  could  only  be  sure  God  existed,  so  that  she 
might  love  Him.  If  she  could  see  Jesus,  how  gladly  she  would 
throw  herself  at  His  feet,  and  kiss  them,  and  weep  over  them  ! 
But  God  1  He  was  so  far  away ! 

She  dared  not  trust  herself  to  look  anywhere  but  on  her 
book,  or  she  might  have  seen  a  flash  of  sudden  jealousy  on  M. 
d'Isten's  face. 

"That  is  truer  to  me  of  my  friends  than  of  God,"  he 
whispered  hurriedly. 

She  did  not  distinguish  the  words,  for  a  thunderous  peal  of 
the  organ  just  then  rolled  through  the  temple.  The  sudden 
start  shook  two  big  tears  on  to  her  cheeks,  and  when  she  had 
brushed  them  away,  and  turned  her  chaste  eyes  up  to  him,  he 
had  for  the  moment  no  desire  greater  than  that  she  should  not 
know  what  he  had  said.  Her  purity  of  soul  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed. 

From  the  church  their  landau  took  them  out  through  the 
Champs  Elyse'es,  beyond  the  Bois,  and  on  into  the  country,  by 
roads  which  M.  d'Isten's  schoolboy  days  had  taught  him. 

They  came  finally  to  a  group  of  trees  on  a  bank  above  the 
Seine.  The  city  lay  concealed  behind  them ;  no  house  was  in 
sight,  but  blue  wreaths  of  smoke  beyond  a  hillock  told  of  a 
noonday  meal.  A  suburban  village  was  not  far  off,  the  coach- 
man said ;  he  would  put  up  his  horses  there.  Marcot  was  a 
devoted  retainer  of  M.  d'Isten's  (the  ladies  did  not  know  this), 
and  was  perfectly  reliable.  He  carried  rugs  and  shawls  down 
to  the  shady  nook  by  the  river,  and  then  drove  away. 

When  he  had  disappeared  there  was  not  a  sign  of  human 
life  but  that  delicate,  treacherous  smoke. 

M.  d'Isten  arranged  everything  in  the  most  convenient 
manner  for  the  ladies,  and  then  threw  himself  at  their  feet  with 
a  sigh  of  content  which  Bethesda  noticed.  She  had  been  un- 
usually silent  ever  since  they  left  the  church,  but  the  quietude 
was  of  pleasure.  These  Sundays  were  delightful  holidays  to 
her ;  how  dear  they  were  she  did  not  know  until  afterwards. 
Her  aunt  was  in  the  especial  humour  for  it  to-day,  and  they 
both  enjoyed  watching  Rene*  d'Isten,  whose  air  of  self-possessed 
distinction  never  left  him,  while  he  relaxed  under  the  influence 
of  nature,  and  became  dreamy  and  content. 

"  What  would  Madame  de  la  R ,  and  Mesdemoiselles 


CHAP,  xii.]  AN  INVISIBLE  BUILDING.  Ill 

de  St.  H ,  who  suppose  you  so  repressed  and  unapproach- 
able, think  now  ? "  asked  Mabel,  smiling  at  his  luxurious  sense 
of  abandon. 

"  Truly  it  would  be  a  revelation  to  them,"  answered  Rene", 
his  head  on  his  hand  and  his  eyes  reposing  on  Bethesda's 
clasped  hands.  "  One  does  not  know  me  to  the  depths,"  he 
continued  presently.  "It  is  no  marvel,  for  I  did  not  know 
myself." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  you  know  yourself  now  ? " 

"  I  am  learning ;  you  teach  me  fast." 

He  included  them  both  in  a  quiet  glance,  and  then  let  his 
eyes  fall  to  the  river  sweeping  almost  silently  past  their  feet. 
It  met  with  no  obstacles  to  cause  it  to  show  its  strength. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  now  ? "  asked  Mabel  idly. 

"  My  unbuilt  castle  by  the  sea,"  he  responded,  without  hesi- 
tation. "  I  often  visit  it.  Every  stone  is  as  known  to  me  as 
this  stream.  The  ocean  is  frothing  now  around  the  base  of  the 
precipice,  for  it  is  calm ;  but  in  stormy  weather  it  dashes  its 
spray  even  to  the  windows,  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above." 

"  Windows  !     It's  all  window  there  now,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  Not  in  my  dreams.  The  castle,  and  the  chapel,  and  the 
lighthouse  are  built,  and  inhabited,  too,  then.  Do  you  know 
by  what  name  I  shall  call  them  1 " 

"  The  last  I  heard  it  was  as  undecided  as  the  rest  of  it. 
Some  fanciful  idea  you  have  now,  I  suppose  ? " 

She  spoke  carelessly,  but  he  answered  with  slow  impressive- 
ness  : 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  name ;  I  have  chosen  it  after  long  con- 
sideration. It  is — Bdthesda." 

"  Not  really  ! "  exclaimed  Beth. 

"  You  will  let  me ?" 

"  I  could  not  possibly  object,"  she  said  a  little  slowly. 

"Do  you  remember  in  Florence,  Madame  Mabelle,  when 
you  first  told  me  your  niece  wrote,  and  that  she  used  her  own 
name,  Be'thesda?" 

His  foreign  tongue  lent  this  Hebrew  word  a  sweetness  of 
pronunciation  which  was  not  lost  on  the  ladies,  and  which  he 
seemed  pleased  to  linger  over. 

"  You  said,"  he  continued,  "that  she  had  always  associated 
some  meaning,  as  yet  unknown,  with  her  name,  and  the  story 
in  the  Holy  Bible.  Last  night  I  thought  of  this,  and  of  the 


112  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

beacon  I  am  to  build  off  a  dangerous  coast.  It  will  guide 
weary  mariners  to  safety ;  it  will  restore  hope  to  the  despairing, 
and  they  will  bless  the  name  it  bears.  I  could  think  of  none 
so  fitted  to  it  as  Be'thesda.  Le  Chateau  de  Be'thesda ;  la  Phare 
de  Be'thesda." 

He  looked  up  with  the  dreaminess  of  his  tone  in  his  dark 
eyes,  and  met  Bethesda's.  They  reminded  him  of  some  sha- 
dowed cove  of  the  shore  near  his  home,  where  the  limpid  water 
lay  deep  and  still,  only  the  tide  throbbing  far  beneath  the 
glinting  surface. 

"I  don't  see  why,  if  you  are  going  to  build  really,  you 
banish  yourself  to  that  out -of -the -world  coast,"  said  Mrs. 
Trescott  in  a  practical  tone.  "  Why  don't  you  buy  a  place  in 
Brittany  or  Normandy,  where  it  would  be  fashionable,  and  you 
could  spend  the  summer  months  1  Madame  d'Isten  might  join 
you  then." 

"  She  does  not  like  the  sea.  She  prefers  her  present  position 
to  any  other."  He  gave  Mrs.  Trescott  a  glance  of  reminder, 
and  then  continued  :  "  This  is  to  be  my  castle ;  I  shall  have  it 
for  my  own.  I  may  not  live  in  it  long  during  the  year,  but  I 
shall  have  a  consciousness  of  its  existence ;  of  a  place  that  I 
can  go  to  at  any  time  and  be  at  rest." 

"  What  a  dreamer  you  are  ! "  exclaimed  Mabel,  somewhat 
impatiently.  "  You  might  do  a  great  deal  better  work  with 
your  money.  And  besides,  how  are  you  going  to  explain  giving 
your  '  castle '  such  a  fantastic  name  1 " 

"  Is  it  fantastic,  madame  1  However,  if  persons  are  inquisi- 
tive I  shall  know  how  to  silence  them.  To  my  friends  I  shall 
say  it  is  my  nom  de  plume,  and  that  I  choose  to  name  my 
castle  the  same." 

"  Le  grand  seigneur  ! "  laughed  Mabel.  Then  sobering : 
"  So  you  will  say  frankly  that  'Bethesda'  is  your  nom  de  plume  ? 
Shall  you  tell  your  wife  of  this  compact  1  Have  you  decided 
to  adopt  it  ?  You  must  each  think  for  yourselves,  you  know. 
Beth  read  me  this  morning  what  she  had  written ;  will  you  ? " 

Mrs.  Trescott  spoke  hastily.  The  subject  had  been  avoided 
until  she  seized  this  opportunity. 

"  I  will  read  it  to  you  both  one  of  these  days,"  said  Rene'. 
"  I  am  resolved  upon  the  compact,  if  mademoiselle  consents, 
and  I  am  assured  she  will." 

His  eyes  met  Bethesda's  in  a  sure  claiming,  and  she  re- 


CHAP,  xii.]  JUNE  GROWTHS.  113 

peated  with  the  almost  solemn  gravity  with  which  she  had  read 
the  words  to  her  aunt : 

"Yes,  I  accept  the  compact." 

Rene'  d'Isten  sprang  to  his  feet  as  the  words  passed  her 
lips,  thus  giving  expression  to  the  bound  of  soul  within  him. 
To  such  words  he  could  trust ;  his  aim  was  reached. 

"  Thank  you,  Bdthesda,"  he  said,  standing  close  beside  her, 
and  there  was  an  intonation  in  his  voice  which  Beth  presently 
learned  she  alone  could  cause. 

Days  passed,  June  came  and  brooded  with  a  delicious 
sweetness  over  land  and  sea;  over  flowers  of  the  earth  and  flowers 
of  the  mind.  Nature  unclosed,  and  let  the  warm  sunbeams 
steal  into  the  furl  of  every  leaf;  white  lilacs  bloomed  and  filled 
all  Paris  with  their  perfume;  roses  smoothed  their  creased 
young  petals,  and  expanded  their  delicate  filaments  in  rich  de- 
velopment. Everything,  in  fact,  was  redolent  of  life,  and  shook 
into  the  air  new  vitality,  and  beauty,  and  strength. 

The  compact  concluded  between  Rend  d'Isten  and  Beth- 
esda  drew  them  more  and  more  intimately  together.  It  was  as 
if  an  isthmus  had  been  cut  away  and  the  waves  of  two  seas 
were  allowed  to  flow  freely  into  one  another.  Each  hour  of 
intercourse  told,  by  some  driftweed  of  conversation,  how  far  the 
waters  of  one  had  advanced  into  the  other,  and  every  sign  spoke 
of  a  surprising  distance  traversed. 

Mrs.  Trescott  felt  them  gradually  receding  from  her,  and 
towards  one  another,  but  was  unable  to  do  anything  to  avert 
the  danger,  if  danger  it  was.  The  isthmus  was  gone ;  nothing 
was  to  be  dene  now  but  watch  and  wait.  It  would  not  be  long 
anyway ;  they  were  to  sail  in  a  month  or  six  weeks.  She 
supported  herself,  meantime,  by  the  belief  that  two  such  extra- 
ordinary beings  as  were  her  niece  and  her  friend,  could  do 
extraordinary  things  without  ordinary  results ;  and  ignored  the 
sovereignty  of  natural  laws. 

But  it  was  a  necessity  to  her  to  "  speak  her  mind,"  and  she 
did  so,  both  to  Rend  and  Bethesda.  She  only  spoke,  however ; 
and,  in  constant  references  to  what  might  be  the  dangers  to 
others,  let  none  of  their  tendencies  come  upon  them  with  the 
enlightening  shock  of  surprise,  but  thus  blunted  their  sensi- 
bilities, and  helped  them  to  remain,  ethically,  asleep. 

Rend  d'Isten,  however,  was  not  wholly  asleep.  He  had 
recognised  very  clearly,  on  the  evening  of  announcing  his  plan, 

I 


114  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

that  it  would  lead  Bethesda  aiid  himself  to  a  unity  of  more 
than  minds.  He  saw  the  inevitability  of  growth  in  a  sprouting 
plant,  unless  some  one  pulled  it  up  by  the  roots,  against  which 
catastrophe  he  guarded  with  utmost  care.  For  he  did  not  think 
it  wrong  that  this  beautiful  arbuste  should  grow  and  blossom  ; 
the  fruit  alone  would  be  wrong  to  touch.  And  he  had  no  fears 
that  either  of  them  would  be  tempted  to  touch  it.  Bethesda 
was  pure  as  an  angel,  and  he  was  going  to  be  unlike  other  men. 
Had  he  not  been,  all  his  life  ?  Why  should  he  now  become 
commonplace  and  vulgar,  just  when  all  the  best  in  him  was  stimu- 
lated and  increased  1  Bah  !  it  was  sacrilege  to  think  of  it ! 

Not  one  of  the  three  realised  the  importance  of  thoughts, 
how  they  are  only  the  buds  of  deeds,  and  that,  even  if  they 
never  reach  fruition,  their  fragrance  may  be  fatal.  Not  one  of 
them  recognised  that  it  is  possible  to  transgress  all  the  com- 
mandments of  every  school  of  morality  in  one's  heart,  yet  keep 
the  outward  life  irreproachable. 

Still  the  instinct  of  principle,  the  moral  sense,  which 
responds,  as  the  intellect  does  not,  to  the  actual  right  and 
wrong,  will  not  let  one  transgress  without  remonstrance. 
Night  after  night  Bethesda  knelt  in  her  open  window,  and  let 
the  stifled  conflict  surge  within  her.  If  at  any  time  she  had 
known  it  absolutely  to  be  wrong,  she  could  have  summoned 
strength  enough  to  break  off  the  whole  affair  and  leave  the 
city.  But  there  was  nothing  to  assure  her  it  was  wrong.  Her 
aunt  vacillated ;  she  herself  felt  the  purity  of  her  intentions, 
and  an  utter  confidence  in  Rene' ;  and  he  did  not  speak. 

For  M.  d'Isten  was  one  of  those  men  who  did  not  deceive, 
he  only  did  not  expose.  He  considered  that  character  which 
allows  its  whole  self  to  be  seen  by  any  one  who  cares  to  look, 
as  a  boorish,  ungraceful,  and  almost  immoral  one.  Garments, 
he  would  have  said,  are  as  necessary  to  the  soul  as  to  the  body 
in  civilised  society.  We  cannot  go  around  telling  our  inmost 
thoughts,  or  holding  up  our  hands,  that  each  person  may  read 
our  fortunes  in  our  palms.  Let  us  drape  ourselves  as  gracefully 
as  may  be,  and  then  we  will  respect  ourselves  and  one  another 
vastly  more. 

Only,  such  a  man  would  not  say  any  of  this,  he  would  live 
it ;  and  this  is  what  others  are  to  see  and  understand,  and 
guide  their  own  actions  accordingly ;  and  it  is  also  what  neither 
Mabel  nor  Bethesda  did. 


CHAP,  xin  ]  A  STORY.  115 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  What  might  have  been  is  sad  indeed  ; 

What  should  have  been  is  sadder  still ; 
The  happiness  our  spirits  need 
Is  not  of  circumstance,  but  will." 

"Your  pity  is  the  suffering  mother  of  love  :  its  anguish  is  the  very 
natal  pang  of  the  divine  passion." — Jane  Eyre. 

ONE  evening,  in  the  second  week  of  their  compact,  the  con- 
versation drifted,  or  was  guided,  towards  what  they  were  first 
to  write  in  unison.  The  letters  were  already  arranged ;  in 
fact,  one  had  been  written  the  previous  week,  worked  up  from 
Rend's  notes  and  Beth's  observation  into  what  was  really 
excellent,  and  pleased  Mrs.  Trescott  hardly  less  than  it  did  the 
double  Bethesda. 

But  both  were  eager  to  commence  something  more  notable 
and  continuous;  something  they  could  plan  now  and  execute 
later. 

Bethesda  suggested  a  story. 

"  A  story  it  shall  be,"  said  Rene",  delighted.  "  But  what 
will  we  treat  1  What  shall  be  chosen  for  the  subject  1 " 

Bethesda  gave  an  outline  which  she  had  already  sketched. 

"  No,"  objected  Rend,  with  a  smile,  "  we  must  have  some- 
thing original  to  the  new  Bdthesda.  I  am  going  to  be  very 
jealous  of  what  you  have  already  thought.  Let  me  give  you 
the  germ  ;  that  is  my  prerogative.  Let  it  be  a  story  based  on 
my  life." 

"  But,  Rend  !     I  never  could  write  that ! " 

"  Pardon  me ;  I  am  convinced  no  one  could  do  it  so  well. 
Besides,  I  shall  help  you ! "  and  he  plunged  into  the  scheme 
with  ardour,  for  autobiography  comes  easiest  to  an  inexperienced 
writer. 

"  I  shall  tell  you  all,"  he  said ;  "  I  shall  give  you  my  opinion 
of  what  has  passed,  and  you  can  sift  them,  throw  away  what  is 
useless,  and  keep  what  you  can  make  good.  You  shall  judge 
me  and  my  actions,  and  write  freely  from  yourself,  as  well  as 
from  me.  It  will  clarify  everything,  and  let  light  on  the 
underground  world  of  the  past.  Come,  it  will  be  excellent ! " 

Was  there  some  hidden  reason  why  lie  wished  her  to  know 


116  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

him  thus  intimately  ?  Or  was  it  only  an  artist's  fervid  desire 
to  paint  what  he  knew  best  ? 

Bethesda  remembered  the  secret  in  his  life,  and  hesitated. 

"There  must  ue  no  concealments,"  he  resumed,  more 
gravely.  "You  shall  be  my  conscience,  to  dictate  where  I 
have  done  wrong,  and  where  I  should  alter  my  conduct  in  the 
future.  You  need  say  nothing,  but  put  it  in  the  work,  and  I 
shall  understand.  You  shall  know  everything,  Be'thesda,  as  I 
know  it  myself.  If  expression  fails  me,  your  insight  will 
abundantly  compensate.  But,  above  all  things,  be  frank.  Do 
not  fear  to  write  as  you  think ;  speak  as  you  would  to  yourself. 
I  shall  understand  each  word,  and  shall  be  grateful  to  you  for 
making  my  duties  easier  to  perform." 

His  voice  had  fallen  into  that  low  and  persuasive  intona- 
tion which  ever  leaned  on  the  tenderest  chords  of  the  woman's 
heart.  Long  ago  she  had  said  it  left  her  no  power,  or  even 
wish,  to  refuse.  So  she  consented,  faintly.  Her  fears  for  her 
literary  incapacity  were  mingled  with  a  somewhat  weakening 
premonition  of  the  events  she  would  have  to  hear.  She  looked 
forward  to  it  with  an  indefinable  dread.  Could  she  bear  to  see 
him  so  worked  upon  as  her  aunt  had  described  when  he 
brought  her  from  proud  anger  to  tears  that  first  night  in  Flor- 
ence, so  long,  long  ago  ? 

But  once  her  consent  won,  Rene*  had  resumed  his  interested 
manner.  He  said  they  must  begin  immediately ;  there  never 
was  a  better  time  than  the  present — when  the  present  was 
good.  She  could  make  her  notes  now,  and  he  would  look  them 
over  to  see  there  were  no  incorrect  impressions.  He  roused 
her  from  her  passivity  by  threatening  to  look  through  her  desk 
for  pencil  and  note-book,  and  by  the  time  they  were  seated, 
Rene'  to  talk  and  the  ladies  to  listen,  the  three  were  in 
thorough  harmony. 

He  spoke  with  admirable  perspicuity  and  ease;  each  in- 
cident was  pointed  by  that  inimitable  French  faculty  of  seizing 
the  very  arrowhead  of  thought  to  which  the  language  lends 
itself  in  an  unequalled  manner.  There  were  many  delicately- 
drawn  sketches  of  scenery,  surroundings,  and  character  which 
Bethesda  despaired  of  reproducing.  At  first  she  dotted  down 
this  and  that  fact,  a  duty  of  which  Rene'  had  frequently  to 
remind  her,  until  he  too  became  so  absorbed  that  the  page 
before  her  remained  empty. 


CHAP,  xin.]  BOYHOOD.  117 

His  father  was  already  a  familiar  character,  and  the  little 
he  knew  of  his  mother  had  been  reverently  communicated  to 
them.  But  now,  in  leading  them  through  the  galleries  of 
memory,  he  could  not  truthfully  refrain  from  pointing  out 
shadows  and  sadder  pictures  which  hung  there. 

They  commenced  early.  He  was  sent  from  home  when  his 
father  remarried,  and  had  first  seen  France,  a  shivering  child 
of  six,  under  the  care  of  an  old  priest  who  knew  nothing  of 
children,  and  had  neglected  him  during  the  whole  journey. 
Still,  he  loved  France  from  the  first,  why  he  could  hardly  say. 

"  It  must  have  been  in  the  little  boy  a  feeling  such  as  the 
maiden  had  when  she  wished  to  kiss  the  ground  at  Dieppe," 
said  Kene',  smiling  at  Beth. 

The  little  fellow  remained  in  the  school  at  Paris  for  eight 
years,  without  leaving  it  even  in  vacations,  and  it  was  only  on 
the  occurrence  of  his  sister's  fatal  illness  that  his  father  sent  for 
him  to  come  to  Algiers.  He  went,  but  reached  home  only  in 
time  to  see  his  sister  lying  at  rest  among  the  flowers,  in  her 
casket ;  and  to  wish,  for  a  while,  that  he  might  lie  there  too. 

His  only  possible  companion  seemed  gone  in  the  death  of 
this  person,  to  whom  alone,  in  her  frequent  visits  to  Paris,  he 
had  been  able  to  speak  freely.  His  step-brothers,  educated  by 
their  mother  to  look  upon  him  with  envy  and  dislike,  avoided 
him ;  his  stepmother  herself  showed  a  petty  spite  towards  him, 
and  his  grief  bit  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  heart.  But  his 
father,  looking  up  from  the  blow  of  the  loss  of  his  favourite 
child,  found  her  little  brother  in  this  sorry  condition,  and  from 
that  time  the  boy  was  never  allowed  to  leave  him  when  they 
could  possibly  be  together.  Rend  had  always  felt  that  his 
sister's  tenderness  and  his  mother's  memory  went  hand  in  hand 
with  his  father's  new  solicitude. 

Two  years  passed  in  the  delightful  intercourse  of  a  youthful 
mind  with  a  man  in  every  way  superior.  An  ardent  passion 
soon  possessed  the  boy  for  his  father,  who  became  his  world. 
Gaiety  of  spirits  bloomed,  thought  developed,  independence 
strengthened,  as  he  felt  the  desire  to  make  himself  an  agreeable 
companion,  and  a  son  of  whom  his  father  need  not  be  ashamed. 
Meanwhile  he  disarmed  his  stepmother's  prejudices,  and  won 
his  brothers  heartily  to  his  side. 

At  the  end  of  this  time  his  father  thought  it  necessary  that 
he  should  again  take  up  his  studies  ;  but  unwilling  to  send  him 


118  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

so  far  away  as  Paris,  he  consigned  him  to  a  learned  monastery 
by  the  sea,  near  the  family  estates,  and  in  the  corner  of  the 
Pyrenees  which  had  become  so  dear  to  Rene'. 

Here  he  passed  a  studious  thoughtful  period,  filled  with 
alternate  hours  of  reading  and  solitary  wanderings  along  the 
shore,  filled  with  sombre  romance,  in  which  the  atmosphere  of 
renunciation,  the  gray  thundering  ocean,  the  majestic  rocks, 
and  his  wholly  introspective  life,  combined  to  accentuate  the 
grave  cast  of  character  which  peculiarly  distinguished  him. 

Of  women  he  knew  almost  nothing.  The  memory  of  his 
mother  and  sister  had  never  been  deposed — in  fact  had  never 
been  approached.  In  Paris  he  had  seen  no  women ;  in 
Algeria  the  white -garmented  and  veiled  creatures  were  like 
wraiths  to  him ;  and  during  his  vacations  his  stepmother  and 
her  coterie  were  so  dissimilar  to  his  tastes  that  they  produced 
no  impression  upon  him.  Perhaps  from  the  cloistered  monks, 
their  stories  and  legends,  he  had  learned  more  of  women  than 
in  any  other  way;  and  he  had  seen  none  who  could  for  an 
instant  be  compared  with  the  ideal  being  whom  saintly  stories 
and  lonely  musings  had  formed  and  almost  endowed  with  life. 

On  finishing  his  education  his  father  offered  him  the  choice 
of  travel  or  Paris.  He  declined  both.  He  wished  to  be  gradu- 
ally introduced  to  that  stream  of  life  which  had  so  long  been 
flowing  past  his  secluded  retreat  without  his  knowing  more  of 
it  than  its  murmur.  So  he  asked  his  father  to  let  him  go  to 
the  town  near  by  to  mingle  freely  in  the  society  then  assembled 
there. 

Permission  was  readily  granted.  His  father  wished  him  to 
marry  young,  and  advised  him  to  seek  a  wife,  not  alone  French, 
but  from  the  Midi,  who  would  be  his  own  from  the  dearest 
mutual  associations.  He  told  him,  however,  it  behoved  him 
not  to  be  in  haste,  but  to  remember  his  inexperience,  his 
responsibilities,  and  to  consult  those  wiser  than  he.  Still  he 
appreciated  the  uses  and  delights  of  a  youthful  marriage,  and 
would  have  been  glad  to  have  his  son  seek  a  similar  experience 
to  that  which  had  given  him  his  own  greatest  happiness. 

"  Beware  of  taking  a  heartless  woman,  no  matter  what  her 
charms.  Find  a  wife  like  your  blessed  mother,  and  I  ask  no- 
thing more  for  you,"  he  said,  when  they  parted. 

Rend  immediately  set  up  a  bachelor's  establishment  in  T , 

and  was  warmly  received  in  society,  where  his  name  was  well 


CHAP,  xiii.]  A  FIRST  FANCY.  119 

known,  and  his  father's  friends  many.  He  was  courted  and 
feted,  and  introduced  at  once  to  all  the  eligible  maidens  of  the 
country  round. 

An  elderly  marchioness,  who  had  been  a  lifelong  friend  of 
his  father's,  took  him  especially  under  her  care.  To  her  he 
spoke  freely :  he  told  her  that  his  fixed  idea  was  to  find  a  wife 
who  should  be  not  so  much  a  society  queen  as  a  womanly 
woman ;  he  told  her  of  his  hopes  and  fears,  and  explained  why 
he  did  not  seek  Paris  instead  of  this  provincial  place,  which 
she  pressed  him  to  do.  He  would  have  a  wider  choice  there, 
she  urged,  and  he  should  "  see  Paris "  before  he  settled ;  he 
would  be  better  satisfied  then. 

But  his  determination  was  unshakable ;  he  had  no  desire 
to  know  Parisian  life ;  rather,  he  wished  to  marry  young  so 
that  he  should  have  no  temptation  to  ever  know  it ;  and  more- 
over, he  wished  his  wife  to  be  from  southern  France,  with  its 
warmth  and  devotion,  and  not  a  frivolous  leader  of  society. 

So  the  marchioness  turned  her  energies  in  another  direction, 
and  studied  all  her  young  acquaintances  with  the  eye  of  a  con- 
noisseur, resolved  to  find  him  a  suitable  wife. 

He,  meantime,  took  the  matter  into  his  own  hands. 

At  a  ball  one  night  he  saw  a  new  face,  brilliant  with  warm 
emotions  and  joyousness  of  spirits.  She  was  dancing  with  a 
young  hussar,  and  they  made  a  notable  couple.  He  found  on 
inquiry  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  Spanish  merchant, 
who  had  married  into  a  French  family  ennobled  by  the  first 
empire.  He  was  ambitious,  the  world  said,  and  resolved  that 
his  daughter  should  marry  at  least  as  high  as  her  mother's 
rank.  To  this  all  her  education  had  tended.  She  was  an  only 
child,  carefully  reared,  accomplished,  and  beautiful,  as  he  could 
see.  The  blood  that  ran  in  her  veins  was  said  to  make  her 
ambitious  also,  and  the  haughty  condescension  with  which  she 
was  received  by  her  mother's  equals  rasped  on  her  unbearably, 
and  it  was  asserted  that  her  aim  was  to  compel  them  to  a  more 
conciliatory  position. 

In  spite  of  these  rumours  Rend  d'Isten,  interested  by  her 
face,  and  indignant  at  her  undeserved  humiliation,  sought  an 
introduction.  He  was  welcomed  with  emjrressement.  The 
father  was  flattered,  the  mother  pleased ;  the  daughter  did  not 
seem  to  object  to  his  advances.  But  the  marchioness  was 
seriously  alarmed. 


120  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

She  summoned  Rend  to  her,  and  at  the  very  first  remon- 
strated strongly.  Here  was  not  the  woman  to  make  him  a 
domestic  wife,  to  answer  his  devotion  with  affection,  to  chain 
him  with  new  ties  of  sweetness  to  his  home  and  land.  This 
woman  was  an  intriguer ;  she  would  marry  the  highest  title, 
and  care  little  who  possessed  it.  Well,  if  she  would  not,  since 
he  defended  her  there,  her  parents  would,  and  he  well  knew  it 
was  all  the  same. 

Rene"  d'Isten  listened,  and  said  he  would  consider,  and  went 
to  judge  critically  this  woman.  Was  she  maligned  by  popular 
report?  or  had  he  heard  the  truth  from  his  good  friend  the 
marchioness  ? 

He  found  mother  and  daughter  together.  The  mother's 
delicate  blandishments  and  fascinations  prejudiced  him  in  her 
favour,  while  the  daughter's  contrasting  manner  seemed  to 
him  more  truly  maidenly  than  anything  he  had  yet  seen,  and 
impressed  upon  him  the  assurance  that  she  would  never  yield 
herself  to  an  ambitious  marriage,  and  would  love  passionately 
if  once  aroused.  He  woidd  be  the  chivalrous  knight  who 
would  reconcile  parents  and  child,  and  rescue  the  beauteous 
damsel  from  her  distressing  position.  Now  the  marchioness 
could  no  longer  affect  him  :  he  had  espoused  a  cause,  and  no- 
thing would  detach  him  from  it. 

Bref,  he  pressed  his  suit  and  won  the  consent  of  the 
parents,  who  gave  it  eagerly,  and  of  the  daughter,  who  showed 
a  shy  reserve  very  attractive  to  him.  He  saw  his  fiancee  only 
in  swift  moments,  however,  and  the  mother  much  more  inti- 
mately. She  was  continually  talking  of  Louise,  praising  her 
deftly;  laying  open  apparently  the  girl's  whole  life  for  his 
reverent  inspection,  and  he  looked  at  the  pages  she  turned  and 
was  content.  The  visionary  ideal  he  had  formed  was  thrown 
into  the  background ;  reality  effaced  imagination,  and  a  happy 
temperament  surrounded  the  reality  with  a  glamour  of  golden 
possibilities. 

Louise  was  dignified,  reserved,  unapproachable  :  he  thought 
them  all  qualities  of  virgin  self-respect.  Her  wit,  which  was 
tinged  with  bitterness,  he  thought  the  result  of  her  position, 
from  which  she  would  soon  be  freed.  Her  joyous  gaiety  dis- 
appeared :  he  thought  it  the  steadying  effect  of  new  ties  upon 
an  earnest  nature.  When  she  vouchsafed  him  a  glance  he 
thought  its  dark  tumult  meant  a  conflict  between  feeling  and 


CHAP,  xiii.]  A  WEDDING.  121 

maidenly  reticence,  and  eagerly  anticipated  the  time  when  she 
should  give  full  liberty  to  a  delicious  emotion. 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  however,  her  parents  were  the 
ones  to  urge  a  speedy  union.  It  was  now  deep  into  the 
summer;  the  town  was  almost  deserted.  The  marchioness, 
among  others,  had  gone  away  a  little  angry,  hoping  that  before 
long  Rene'  would  awake  from  his  delusion. 

But  the  future  mother-in-law  invited  M.  d'Isten  to  their 
new  and  magnificent  castle  amid  the  grand  scenery  of  the 
mountains,  just  the  other  side  of  the  French  boundary,  and 
once  there  they  persuaded  him  to  consent  to  an  immediate 
marriage.  His  father,  whom  he  had  wished  to  have  meet  his 
fiancee,  was  absent  on  important  affairs,  and  wrote  anxious 
letters ;  but  when  Rene'  asked  him,  as  the  first  favour  of  his 
life,  to  acquiesce  in  this  consummation  of  his  hopes,  he  did  so, 
although  reluctantly. 

The  ceremony  was  to  be  performed  in  the  new  and  gorgeous 
chapel.  The  whole  estate  was  resplendently  illuminated  ;  the 
house  was  thrown  open,  and  filled  with  light  and  flowers  from 
turret  to  hall.  A  vast  concourse  of  persons  was  invited, 
and  hastened  to  come.  Rent's  step-brothers  were  there, 
but  his  father  and  the  old  marchioness  could  not  be  present, 
and  they  were  the  only  two  real  friends  the  bridegroom  felt 
he  had. 

At  last,  amid  the  splendour,  the  bride  appeared.  She  was 
pallid  even  to  grayness ;  her  lips  were  compressed,  her  eyes 
glittering.  Superbly  dressed,  her  figure  drawn  to  its  haughtiest 
height,  and  her  whole  bearing  that  of  extreme  effort  at  self- 
command,  she  looked  handsomer  than  ever  before, — and  yet  she 
made  him  shudder  from  head  to  foot. 

But  it  was  too  late  for  hesitation. 

When  they  met  at  the  altar  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
say  which  hand  was  the  coldest,  which  self-control  the  most 
tense.  For  his  part,  he  could  remember  nothing  of  the  ceremony, 
nothing  of  responses  or  oaths. 

He  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing,  until,  when  the  blessing 
was  pronounced,  Louise  muttered  low,  he  knew,  yet  it  could 
not  have  deafened  him  more  had  it  been  shrieked  : 

"  God,  strike  me  dead  !" 

Rend  pushed  his  chair  suddenly  aside,  and  rose.  Bethesda, 
whose  wide  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  him,  dropped  them  \vith  a 


122  BETHESDA.  [PARTI. 

shuddering  sigh.  Her  soul  was  a  sea  of  pity,  which  dashed  its 
spray  even  over  herself. 

Mabel  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  said  slowly : 

"  Poor  creature  ! " 

"  Yes,"  responded  Rene",  turning  towards  them,  and  leaning 
on  the  high  back  of  Mrs.  Trescott's  chair ;  "  I  never  grieved  for 
any  one  as  I  did  for  Louise  at  that  moment.  I  thought  of 
nothing  except  that  she  was  in  agony, — and  that  she  was  my 
wife." 

He  seated  himself  again,  and  continued. 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  each  sense  was  acutely  clear, 
each  nerve  strained  to  do  its  duty,  in  shielding  her  and  himself. 
For  the  moment  they  were  more  completely  identified  than  any 
other  circumstance  could  have  made  them. 

Her  stern  self-command  did  not  again  leave  her.  In  spite 
of  the  heat,  the  excitement,  and  the  merry  supper,  not  the 
faintest  colour  tinged  her  face ;  but,  as  the  hours  passed,  her 
eyes  glittered  more  and  more  dangerously. 

M.  d'Isten  kept  her  constantly  in  sight ;  his  watchfulness 
did  not  importune,  nor  did  it  leave  her.  He,  too,  was  dis- 
charging his  duties  with  successful  self-mastery.  That  one 
instant,  flaming  over  the  past,  and  lighting  the  future  with  a 
cruel  glare,  had  taught  him  more  in  concealment  than  had  his 
whole  previous  life  of  twenty-two  years.  All  the  force  his 
nature  might  possess  was  suddenly  called  into  action,  and  it  did 
not  fail  him.  The  guests  who  had  anticipated,  it  may  be,  a 
brilliant  scandal,  as  a  continuance  of  the  present  entertainment, 
saw  the  young  husband  already  assuming  the  responsibilities  of 
his  position,  and  doubted  any  further  amusement.  Had  they 
done  otherwise  they  would  have  been  disappointed,  remarked 
Rene'  d'Isten  quietly. 

It  had  been  a  stipulation,  made  by  the  parents,  that  their 
only  child  should  not  be  taken  from  them,  but  that  the  newly- 
married  couple  should,  for  a  time  at  least,  reside  in  their  home. 
They  were  to  return  to  a  suite  of  apartments  provided  for  them, 
after  a  honeymoon  spent  at  the  d'Isten's  chateau,  thirty  miles 
away.  The  next  morning  they  would  leave,  escorted  half-way 
by  a  gay  cavalcade  of  the  marriage  guests,  but  this  night  they 
were  to  pass  where  the  wedding  had  taken  place. 

M.  d'Isten  spent  it  entirely  in  his  wife's  antechamber, 
either  pacing  noiselessly  from  corner  to  corner,  or  standing  in 


CHAP,  xiii.]  SUFFEEING.  123 

the  open  window.  The  room  was  dark,  for  nothing  must  betray 
their  miserable  secret.  This  was  the  one  point  on  which  he 
was  resolved. 

In  his  abstraction  of  fierce  thought  he  at  one  time  brushed 
the  portieres  hanging  before  the  door  opening  into  the  room 
where  she  was.  He  recoiled  from  the  touch  ;  it  seemed  to 
poison  him.  He  leaned  far  out  of  the  window,  to  reach  the 
pure  night  air.  He  was  still,  but  every  sense  was  electrically 
alive.  The  slightest  sound,  or  touch,  sent  a  shock  through  him 
as  if  it  had  been  from  a  battery. 

In  this  state  he  could  decide  nothing ;  but  a  tidal  wave  of 
irresistible  feeling  rolled  up,  and  marked  with  a  deep  line  the 
resolve  to  know  all,  and  the  determination  that  his  name  should 
not  be  stained. 

The  short  summer  night  wore  away,  and  the  dawn  came. 
Birds  sang  exultingly ;  trees  and  flowers  gleamed  in  the  grow- 
ing light ;  a  damp  breeze  blew  over  the  forest,  and  refreshed  his 
hot  brain.  He  longed  to  be  away,  amid  the  everlastingness  of 
nature.  He  would  have  given  much  for  a  ride  over  the  desert, 
through  that  grand  monotony  which  dwarfs  and  stills  human 
suffering. 

But  the  forest  and  the  hills  would  be  something.  He 
changed  his  clothing,  and  went  out  from  the  terrace  window. 
For  hours  he  wandered  through  the  morning  glades,  with 
nature  smiling  in  his  face,  and  the  birds  carolling  overhead. 
His  electric  susceptibility  decreased  here,  where  all  was  the 
same  as  for  years  and  years.  A  forest  could  not  be  made,  or 
destroyed,  in  a  day,  an  hour,  an  instant.  How  long  had  it 
taken  her  to  speak  those  words  ?  He  wondered  over  it,  in  a 
curiously  minute  calculation,  which  absorbed  his  whole  mind. 
Presently  he  roused  himself  with  a  start.  Anything  was 
better  than  this  idiocy,  this  appalling  weakness.  He  must  have 
presence  of  mind. 

He  remained  in  the  forest  until  the  fiery  spell,  which  alter- 
nated with  this  apathy,  was  quenched,  and  he  knew  he  could 
depend  upon  his  mind.  In  a  few  hours  he  would  be  alone  with 
his  wife ;  then  all  should  be  explained.  No  decision  could  be 
made  until  facts  were  clearly  known. 

He  returned  to  the  house.  Numerous  domestics  were 
stirring  lazily.  He  contrived  to  elude  them  all,  and  to  return 
by  the  terrace  without  being  seen.  He  performed  a  scrupulous 


124  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

toilette,  for  appearances  were  now  everything.  Then  he  forced 
himself  to  read,  and  understand,  a  book  on  some  scientific 
question  in  which  he  had  been  interested,  until  the  morning 
was  far  advanced. 

A  valet  came  and  knocked  loudly.  M.  d'Isten  dismissed 
him,  and  then  tapped  on  his  wife's  door. 

It  opened  almost  immediately.  Madame  d'Isten,  dressed 
for  her  journey,  stood  before  him.  She  met  his  grave  eyes 
with  a  glance  of  defiance  and  curiosity  combined ;  he  read  her 
shrewdly  now.  He  asked  if  he  might  speak  with  her,  and  she 
gave  a  silent  acquiescence,  sending  away  her  maid  by  a  gesture. 

He  entered  the  room  with  a  firm  step,  and  took  the  seat  to 
which  she  motioned  him.  Each  instant  she  shot  inquiring 
glances  at  him,  her  defiance  gradually  disappearing,  and  her 
curiosity  replaced  by  something  like  fear.  He  did  not  wish 
this. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "you  consented  to  become  my  wife. 
You  wear  my  name.  We  are  married.  Whatever  may  seem 
strange  to  you  or  me  we  must  conceal  from  the  world.  This 
is  due  to  your  dignity  and  mine,  and  to  the  name  we  both  now 
bear.  I  trust  you  agree  with  me  1" 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  laconic  response. 

"  Every  incident  will  take  place  as  expected  by  your  guests. 
Women  understand  dissimulation;  it  is  not  necessary  to  say 
more.  Shall  I  take  you  to  the  breakfast-room,  madame  ?" 

She  was  somewhat  confused.  The  sullen  look  which  had 
gathered  on  her  face  while  he  spoke  was  broken  by  conflicting 
sentiments. 

He  awaited  her  pleasure.  It  was  desirable  that  her  confi- 
dences should  be  postponed  until  they  were  alone  ;  but,  if  she 
chose,  it  should  be  now. 

After  a  moment  she  rose  with  an  energy  which  threw 
down  her  chair.  M.  d'Isten  picked  it  up  in  silence.  He 
opened  the  doors  for  her  to  pass,  and,  when  they  reached  the 
gallery  gave  her  his  arm.  They  were  immediately  joined  by  a 
gay  bevy,  and  did  not  see  each  other  again  alone  until  they 
arrived  at  his  chateau — the  place  selected  for  the  bringing 
home  of  his  beautiful  bride,  and  the  fondly-anticipated  honey- 
moon. 

Little  by  little,  only  by  the  utmost  tact  and  timing  of  her 
moods  was  the  confidence  he  had  determined  upon  securing, 


CHAP,  xiii.]  PASSION  HAS  NO  TEUST.  125 

given  him.  He  studied  her  with  care.  Nothing  escaped  him ; 
no  trait  was  manifested  that  did  not  print  itself  on  his  mind 
with  painful  distinctness.  She  took  it  for  granted  that  he  had 
learned — how  she  could  not  guess,  not  knowing  she  had  spoken 
aloud  in  that  supreme  moment — her  secret,  and,  won  by  the 
sympathy  which  he  sincerely  gave  her,  relieved  herself  in  an 
impetuous  outpouring.  Through  it  he  discovered  what  she 
supposed  he  already  knew. 

It  was  a  story  bitterly  common  he  knew  now ;  then  it 
seemed  to  him  terribly  strange. 

She  had  met  and  loved  a  sub-officer  stationed  in  the  town 
where  she  was  at  school.  They  bribed  the  woman  who  walked 
out  with  the  class  to  connive  at  their  clandestine  meetings,  and 
had  sworn  undying  fidelity.  In  parting  she  had  promised  to 
use  all  her  influence  to  win  her  parents'  consent  to  their  marriage. 
She  returned  to  her  home,  and  was  immediately  surrounded  by 
adulation,  and  her  parents'  ambitious  intrigues.  They  refused 
her  request  with  scorn,  and  pricked  her  pride  to  a  greater  aim. 
She  wrote  her  lover,  presently,  that  he  must  win  her  by 
making  a  name ;  and  he,  in  return,  reproached  her  for  her  lack 
of  affection,  but  assured  her  that,  if  she  would  but  wait,  he 
would  make  a  name  she  need  not  be  ashamed  to  accept. 

During  the  year  which  ensued  she  refused  many  good  offers, 
and  won  the  name  of  a  person  who  could  only  be  secured  at  a 
high  price,  while  she  was,  she  affirmed,  only  keeping  faith  with 
a  man  whose  patent  of  nobility  was  love. 

Then  Monsieur  le  Comte  d'Isten,  heir  to  the  title  of 
marquis,  appeared.  His  name  and  position,  she  acknowledged, 
were  not  without  their  effect  upon  her.  In  fact,  her  ambition, 
her  pride,  her  desire  for  power,  had  been  powerful  advocates  of 
his  cause.  Her  love,  however,  struggled  rebelliously  under  the 
weight  of  alien  thoughts,  and  would  have  conquered  had  not  its 
death-blow  been  dealt,  and  her  better  nature  ruined,  by  her 
mother's  machinations.  She  told  her  daughter  that  her  lover 
had  deserted  her  and  was  betrothed  to  another  woman. 

"  And  she  believed  it  ? "  exclaimed  Bethesda. 

"  She  did.  Had  she  not,  I  think  she  would  have  refused 
my  titles.  She  loved  him  well  enough  for  that." 

"  But  not  well  enough  to  believe  in  him,"  murmured  the 
girl  involuntarily. 

"  No,"  answered  Kene'  gravely ;    "  few  women  have  the 


• 

126  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

capacity  to  love  another  better  than  themselves.  Louise  is  not 
one  of  the  few  ;  she  has  many  sisters  in  character." 

There  was  a  pause.  Bethesda  did  not  speak  again.  M. 
d'Isten  went  on. 

Despair  and  rage  made  the  deceived  woman  willing  to 
submit  to  her  parents'  urging  of  a  speedy  marriage.  She 
would  be  married  first.  The  traitor  should  see  that  she  was 
not  to  be  left  thus  scornfully  to  break  her  heart  unconsoled. 

But  on  the  very  evening  of  their  marriage,  when  she  was 
already  dressed  for  the  ceremony,  a  letter  had  been  secretly 
handed  to  her,  and  the  lover  explained,  in  the  agonised  language 
of  truth,  that  he  was  not  unfaithful ;  that  the  story  of  his  new 
betrothment  was  a  fable  of  her  mother's;  that  he  had  been 
promoted,  and  transferred  to  a  regiment  which  would  be 
quartered  in  the  town  of  S ;  and  that  he  was  then  await- 
ing her  in  the  park,  ready  to  rescue  her  from  the  ignominy 
of  this  marriage,  and  replace  it  by  one  where  her  love,  at 
least,  would  support  her ;  if  she  slipped  from  the  house,  .if  only 
for  a  moment,  he  would  save  her  at  the  cost  of  his  life,  and 
even  hers.  It  was  better  that  she  should  die  than  sell  her 
soul 

She  suffered  tortures  while  the  few  moments  lingered  during 
which  she  could  have  gained  her  freedom  and  saved  the  happi- 
ness of  at  least  three  lives. 

But  they  passed  unimproved.  She  was  still  convulsed  in 
the  throes  of  alternate  ambition  and  love  when  her  solitude  was 
invaded  and  the  crisis  was  over.  She  must  now  become 
Madame  la  Comtesse  d'Isten.  She  bent  to  her  destiny,  which 
brought  her  a  title  and  married  freedom,  and  her  wretched  new 
life  began. 

She  was  never  for  an  instant  content.  Her  satisfied 
ambition  left  her  defenceless  before  the  onslaughts  of  her 
outraged  love.  The  honeymoon  passed  in  torrents  of  tears  and 
convulsions  of  remorse.  Always  for  herself  and  her  lover.  The 
thought  of  her  husband  never  occurred  to  her  except  as  an 
object  of  interference.  He  recognised  it,  and  kept  himself 
strictly  in  the  background. 

The  one  thing,  meantime,  which  she  commanded,  beseechcd, 
implored,  was  that  her  husband  should  let  her  live  in  the  city 
where  she  could  see  him  pass ;  where,  at  the  theatre,  their  eyes 
might  meet ;  where  she  could  know  whether  he  was  dead  or 


CHAP,  xiii.]  A  HOPELESS  ENDEAVOUR.  127 

alive ;  and  then  she  swore  by  her  religion,  by  her  love  itself, 
that  she  would  remember  whose  wife  she  was,  and  that  her 
husband  should  never  have  cause  to  complain. 

M.  d'Isten  took  time  to  consider.  He  understood  the 
character  with  which  he  had  to  deal,  and  he  deliberately  marked 
out  the  hard  lines  of  his  changed  life.  He  would  let  her  have 
her  will,  and  would  do  everything  in  his  power,  by  patience  and 
kindness,  so  long  as  she  kept  her  word,  to  win  his  wife's 
affection,  if  not  her  love. 

So  he  consented  to  her  desires.  When,  in  the  long  years 
that  followed,  she  would  spring  from  her  chair  and  rush  to  the 
window  at  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  and  a  sabre,  he  would  fix 
his  eyes  on  the  opposite  wall  and  never  stir.  When,  at  the 
theatre,  she  blushed  and  her  face  was  stirred  by  emotion,  he 
would  never  seek  the  place  where  she  had  looked,  but  rather  let 
his  eyes  fall  that  he  might  not  see  too  much.  Even  when  she 
would  throw  herself  on  his  neck  and  pour  out  her  sorrow  and 

her  undying  regret  for ,  he  would  stop  her  with  tender 

firmness,  and  insist  that  she  should  never  mention  that  name. 

With  a  kindness  he  tried  to  make  invariable  with  constant 
study,  and  a  yearning  she  never  suspected,  he  endeavoured  to 
win  the  affection  which  was  still  hers  to  give.  His  attentions 
were  those  of  a  yet  unaccepted  suitor.  In  no  way  did  he 
exercise  any  marital  authority  except  one :  he  made  her  under- 
stand that  the  instant  anything  occurred  to  compromise  his 
honour  he  would  put  her  away.  She  had  not  failed.  Once,  in 
a  fit  of  desperation,  she  was  about  to  leave  him,  but  the  flight 
was  prevented ;  she  knew  not  how.  She  never  dreamed  that 
he  knew  it,  but  there  was  nothing  she  did  which  he  did  not 
know.  He  had  his  honour  to  guard,  and  it  had  not  been 
betrayed. 

For  four  years  he  devoted  himself  to  nothing  but  his  wife, 
and  for  success  he  was  granted  the  knowledge  that  at  any  time 
she  would  have  inwardly  rejoiced  at  his  death,  and  that  she 
found  life  so  unendurable  that  she  had  often  threatened  to  kill 
herself,  and  he  had  even  taken  a  pistol  from  her  hand  when  he 
had  once  unexpectedly  returned  to  her  side. 

Such  was  the  domesticity  marriage  had  brought  him  ;  the 
home  which  had  taken  the  place  of  his  glowing  visions ;  the 
reality  that  had  usurped  his  ideals. 

At  the  end  of  four  years  every  expedient  had  been  tried 


128  BETIIESDA.  [PART  i. 

which  a  hearty  will  could  suggest.  All  had  ignominiously  failed. 
There  only  remained  now  to  change  all  the  circumstances  and 
influences  around  them,  and  see  what  would  ensue. 

Rene'  went  to  pay  a  long-delayed  visit  to  his  father.  The 
years  since  his  marriage  had  been  intensely  reserved,  self- 
reliant  years.  Everything  had  been  done  from  himself;  no  one 
was  his  confidant  or  counsellor.  He  had  not  been  away  from 
Louise  except  for  the  few  bloody  weeks  of  the  war ;  but  now  he 
made  a  long  visit  to  his  beloved  parent. 

He  then  expressed  to  him  his  desire  to  choose  a  vocation 
which  should  actively  employ  him,  and  signified  his  willingness 
to  follow  his  father's  advice.  The  marquis  was  overjoyed,  and 
immediately  obtained  for  his  son  a  position  under  one  of  the 
finest  statesmen  in  France;  a  confidential  position,  which  he 
hoped  would  lead  to  the  highest  honours. 

When  this  was  arranged  Rend  d'Isten  returned  to  his  wife, 
and  asked  her  to  accompany  him  to  Paris.  She  refused,  with 
a  torrent  of  passion.  He  then  quietly  forced  her  to  see  the 
life  she  was  compelling  him  to  lead,  and  the  misery  to  which  she 
was  subjecting  herself.  He  acquainted  her  with  his  resolve 
to  try  a  change.  He  had  submitted  to  her  wishes  in  large  and 
small  things,  only  to  increase  their  mutual  unhappiness.  She 
must,  in  this  instance,  submit  to  him.  He  was  going  where 
his  duties  called  him;  she  should  accompany  him.  Once  in 
Paris  he  would  do  all  in  his  power  to  help  her  to  find  pleasure 
or  relief  from  ennui  ;  but  to  Paris  she  must  go. 

Of  course  she  did  so  ultimately,  but  she  apparently  exhausted 
herself  in  finding  the  means  to  render  the  preparations"  and  the 
journey  disagreeable.  In  Paris  her  days  were  spent  in  weep- 
ing or  tempests  of  anger,  her  only  aim  being  to  make  it  so 
trying  to  her  husband  that  he  woujd  perforce  let  her  return 
home. 

He  meantime  kept  his  promise  in  providing  her  with  every 
distraction,  but  his  manner  had  changed  from  what  it  had 
been.  He  was  no  longer  the  suitor,  but  the  husband.  He 
wished  to  make  a  complete  alteration  in  their  lives,  and  allow 
his  will  to  become  active  where  it  had  been  so  long  passive. 
But  no  change  could  fulfil  his  hope  of  winning  her  affection, 
and,  after  six  mouths  of  unceasing  struggle  he  escorted  her  back 
to  her  parents,  and  returned  to  Paris  alone. 

"Our  lives  now  flow  in  the  separate  channels  she   has 


CHAP,  xiii.]  SEVERANCE.  129 

made,"  he  said,  "  and  they  probably  will  to  the  end.  I  do  all 
I  can  for  her.  I  write  often ;  I  visit  her  frequently ;  she  is 
not  cramped  or  coerced  in  any  way  but  the  one :  since  she 
wears  my  name  it  must  be  blamelessly.  I  have  tried  to  be  a 
good  husband." 

"  You  are  an  ideal  husband,"  exclaimed  Mabel,  the  tears 
again  standing  in  her  eyes.  "  I  cannot  imagine  one  more  self- 
abnegating  or  noble.  Tell  Beth  the  last.  You  must  not  forget 
your  crowning  sacrifice.  Tell  her  why  you  went  to  Rome." 

"  I  should  not  easily  forget  my  going  there,  since  it  brought 
what  has  proved  to  be  the  happiest  period  of  my  life.  I  went 
to  Rome  to  see  a  French  General  then  on  a  mission  there. 
The  man  Louise  loved  had  been  ordered  to  be  exchanged  into 
an  Algerian  regiment.  He  had  made  a  serious  mistake — dis- 
obedience it  was  called — and  the  punishment  was  temporary 
exile.  Louise  was  distracted  with  grief  at  the  prospect,  and 
beseeched  me  to  use  my  influence  in  his  behalf.  It  was  not 
easy  for  me  to  do,  but  I  undertook  it.  It  might  be  a  provi- 
dential chance  for  her  affection.  If  this  would  not  win  her, 
nothing  could.  I  went  to  Rome,  and  remained  there  some 
time,  as  you  know.  When  I  had  gained  the  favour  I  heard 
from  Louise.  My  efforts  made  no  impression  on  her,  except, 
indeed,  that  she  upbraided  me  for  lack  of  zeal  in  being  so  slow. 
That  severed  the  last  link  which  bound  my  hopes  to  her.  It 
became  of  small  consequence  whether  she  liked  or  disliked  me, 
and  I  felt  freed  from  a  nightmare  of  ignominy  to  be  dependent 
no  longer.  The  man  understood  my  position  better.  He  wrote 
to  me,  and  I  need  fear  him  no  more.  Then  I  came  to  Florence 
and  met  you." 

He  looked  full  at  Bethesda  with  an  indescribable  expression 
of  gratitude.  Her  eyes  were  wide  with  pain,  her  cheeks  were 
flushed,  her  hair  pushed  back  as  it  had  been  from  an  uncon- 
scious gesture  of  distress.  She  had  been  leaning  forward  in  a 
listening  intentness,  but  now  she  rose. 

For  an  instant  she  lingered  by  Renews  chair.  He  felt  her 
brooding  over  him  with  a  tenderness  of  overwhelming  pity. 

"  My  pool  of  Be'thesda,"  he  said,  in  a  very  low  tone. 

An  irradiation  as  of  white  light  crossed  her  features.  It 
flashed  and  disappeared,  and  she  went  quickly  away. 

Rene*  d'Isten  always  held  that  he  had  seen  the  gleam  of  an 
angel's  wing  reflected  in  her  face. 

K 


130  BETHESDA.  [i'ART  I. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

"  In  Godhead  rise,  thither  flow  back 
All  loves,  which,  as  they  keep  or  lack, 
In  their  return,  the  course  assigned 
Are  virtue  or  sin. " — COVENTRY  PATMORB. 

"  The  light  and  darkness  in  our  chaos  joined, 
What  shall  divide?    The  God  within  the  mind. "— POPE. 

THE  change  this  culminating  confidence  made  in  the  mutual 
relations  of  all  three  was  unmistakable ;  and  yet,  to  an  outsider, 
it  might  have  seemed  to  have  had  no  effect.  It  was  only  a 
question  of  delight  when  Bethesda  and  Rene*  were  together; 
when  they  were  apart  doubts  came. 

Rend  felt  deeply  that  the  sorrows  of  his  life  were  being 
compensated.  His  fate  had  been  accepted  when  it  was  hardest ; 
now,  when  it  was  rendered  brilliant  and  beautiful  by  the  glad 
devotion  of  a  pure  heart,  he  put  from  him  all  thought  of  regret. 
This  impotent  emotion,  indeed,  experience  had  long  since  taught 
him  to  look  upon  as  deplorable  weakness,  and  he  was  not  going 
to  be  weak, — no,  far  from  it.  He  would  be  unlike  other 
men. 

This  was  what  whetted  his  resolution  not  to  let  his  heart 
gain  ascendency  over  his  head,  which  he  was  very  well  aware 
was  the  tendency  of  such  close  sympathy  as  now  subsisted 
between  himself  and  Bethesda.  He  had  no  doubt  of  his  power 
to  control  himself.  His  life  had  taught  him  to  crush  all  buds 
of  passion  before  they  were  large  enough  to  enervate  his  strength, 
and  he  thought  he  could  trust  himself  without  any  danger  in 
the  society  of  this  woman  who  each  hour  made  him  feel  more 
blessed. 

In  looking  back  he  could  hardly  believe  his  fate  had  been 
at  last  so  kind  to  him.  Long  ago  he  had  been  forced  to 
relinquish  the  thought  of  seeing  his  ideal  realised.  Not  alone 
his  unfortunate  marriage,  but  also  his  contact  with  a  frivolous 
and  desecrated  society,  had  made  such  visions  seem  baseless 
and  impossible.  He  had  never  lost  sight  of  his  dreams ;  in 
fact,  his  marriage,  in  throwing  him  back  on  himself  so  completely 
as  it  had  done,  restored  them  with  only  more  radiant  colouring ; 
but  he  had  learned  to  regard  them  as  poetic  fancies,  not  to  be 


CHAP.  XIV.]  DEVELOPMENT.  131 

found  living  and  treading  the  pathways  of  this  world.  Then, 
in  the  midst  of  his  shattered  anticipations,  which  he  regarded 
with  resignation  ;  in  the  midst  of  a  society  he  despised ;  in  the 
most  barren  period  of  his  life,  appeared  his  vision,  incarnate, 
and  he  was  allowed  to  enter  her  intimacy. 

He  was  the  first ;  the  first  who  had  been  able  to  sway  her ; 
the  first  that  had  conquered  her  from  herself;  the  "first  who 
had  known  how  to  cross  the  mystic  stream  about  her  impregnable 
castle  and  claim  a  welcome  from  its  regal  inmate. 

And  Bethesda,  meantime,  had  not  an  even  'dim  conception 
of  where  she  was  being  led.  While  Rene'  was  fortifying  him- 
self, realising  at  least  somewhat  of  the  strength  of  the  test  he 
was  undergoing,  Bethesda  had  not  dreamed  of  there  being  any 
test.  She  knew,  of  course,  that  such  union  of  minds  as  this 
might  become,  would  probably,  in  other  circumstances,  mean 
union  of  hearts  as  well.  "  But,"  she  thought,  quite  simply, 
"  the  possibility  of  this  with  us  is  precluded ;"  never  thinking 
that  circumstances  are  like  straw,  to  be  burned  by  passion  or 
whirled  away  by  the  wind  of  free-will. 

Her  life,  however,  was  now  a  turrnoiL  The  fires  beneath 
were  making  the  straw  crackle,  and  hot  springs  bubble  up 
through  the  cool  waters  of  innocence  and  purity.  She  would 
kneel  in  the  window  till  her  brain  refused  longer  to  think,  and 
she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  to  awaken  late  in  the  morning 
with  a  jubilant  sense  that  the  hour  drew  near  when  she  should 
again  see  Rene",  and  all  questioning  would  be  at  rest ;  at 
least  until  she  was  again  delivered  to  the  solitary  midnight 
battle. 

And  Mrs.  Trescott  thought  that  it  might  be  a  second  Dante 
and  Beatrice,  and  still  half  reluctantly  consented.  The  two  did 
not  meet  except  .in  Mabel's  presence ;  but  with  the  unveiling  of 
the  secret  which  had  separated  them  like  a  phantom  during  all 
their  previous  intercourse,  the  most  complete  confidence  was 
established.  Truly  Rend  told  Be'thesda  all.  Each  minute 
circumstance  that  he  could  describe,  every  unimportant  incident, 
found  a  listening  ear,  an  unbounded  sympathy,  and  a  proper 
place  in  the  annals  of  his  life.  This  was  the  excuse  which 
accounted  for  the  transference  of  absolute  knowledge  from  him 
to  her,  not  alone  of  circumstances  and  intentions,  but  faults 
and  penitent  confessions.  She  became  quite  literally  his  con- 
science. 


132  BETHESDA.  fi'AiiT  i. 

It  has  been  well  said  that  we  expect  one  faculty  to  do  the 
work  of  another  in  mental  and  moral  life.  Especially  in  regard 
to  the  functions  of  reason  and  conscience  do  we  make  this  mis- 
take. The  conscience  "  is  not  alone  expected  to  enforce  doing 
what  is  right,  but  to  decide  what  the  right  is."  Now  this  Avas 
precisely  Bethesda's  fault.  She  looked  to  her  conscience  as  the 
leader  of  morality — its  judge  instead  of  its  executor.  She 
referred  her  daily  life,  and  the  lives  of  those  with  whom  she 
came  in  contact,  to  her  conscience  instead  of  her  reason.  The 
latter  was  utterly  untaught.  Mrs.  Trescott  had  in  many  ways 
a  high  disdain  for  pure  reason,  and  was  apt  to  apply  the  term 
"  reasonable "  to  anything  she  wished  to  do,  and  the  term 
"  unreasonable "  to  that  which  any  one  else  wished  to  do  in 
conflict  with  her  desires. 

But  fortunately  reason  does  not  consist  of  this  fluctuating 
quantity.  It  is  the  one  absolute  principle  which  thrones  itself 
above  all  others,  and  judges  with  accurate  impartiality.  It  is 
this  which  condemns  our  dearest  desires,  and  makes  us  trample 
them  under  foot  to  reach  to  the  footstool  of  majestic  virtue. 
It  is  this  to  which  we  must  cleave  with  our  utmost  tenacity, 
and  an  ever-exercised  strength,  if  we  would  not  slip  into  igno- 
rance, superstition,  and  error.  Conscience  is  but  its  servant  and 
"ready  sentinel."  It  enforces  what  has  been  commanded,  and 
reads  the  decree  of  reward  and  punishment.  Bethesda  was 
trying  to  make  it  do  its  supreme  lord's  work,  and,  of  course,  she 
signally  failed. 

Rene'  d'Isten  had,  if  possible,  still  less  apprehension  of  this 
high  king,  except  as  a  recognised  authority  corroborated  his 
decisions.  He  had  been  educated  in  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  which  is  the  destroyer  of  personal  intercourse  between 
reason  and  humanity,  and  the  dictator  of  uncomprehending 
obedience.  Rene'  d'Isten's  nature  was,  moreover,  peculiarly 
obedient.  Wherever  he  gave  confidence  he  gave  obedience — 
to  the  Church,  to  France,  to  his  father,  and  now  to  Be'thesda. 

She  was  learning  rapidly  that  what  she  said  he  did,  what 
she  suggested  he  executed,  what  she  affirmed  he  believed.  It 
was  a  terrible  responsibility.  Her  conscience,  weakened  by  a 
tacit  disobedience,  and  without  any  strength  of  reason  behind 
it,  faltered  more  and  more  often  under  the  double  burden.  But 
this  was  only  in  the  hours  when  she  was  solitary  and  despondent. 
Her  conscience  was  strong  enough  to  execute  what  her  reason 


CHAP,  xiv.]  COMING  EVENTS.  133 

knew  to  be  right  one  step  ahead ;  but  she  wished  to  see  the 
whole  road,  and  where  it  led,  before  she  went  against  the  rock 
that  seemed  to  bar  her  path — the  rock  of  an  entire  relinquish- 
ment  of  Rene'  and  the  consequences  of  such  a  step  to  him. 

When  she  was  with  him,  however,  they  mutually  felt  the 
support  of  good  intentions,  and  the  self-control  they  constantly 
practised.  The  difference  between  them  lay  in  this  :  when 
Rene"  was  away  from  Bethesda  he  was  planning  how  he  could 
advance  and  not  have  it  seem  wrong  to  her;  when  she  was 
away  from  him  she  was  trying  to  brace  herself  to  the  effort 
of  receding  step  by  step,  so  that  Rene'  should  not  "feel 
hurt." 

Her  forces  were  divided ;  his,  firm  to  one  purpose.  Need 
it  be  said  that  he  always  won  1 

One  of  his  last  steps  was  this  : 

They  were  talking  about  the  correspondence.  The  steamer 
tickets  had  been  bought  that  day,  and  it  made  the  time  of 
separation  seem  very  near.  Rend  was  planning,  in  his  usual 
orderly  way,  how  often,  and  on  what  days,  he  would  write. 

"  I  shall  be  exactly  regular,"  he  said.  "  Twice  a  week  I 
shall  send  you  letters.  If  they  do  not  arrive,  you  may  know 
the  steamer  is  late." 

"  What  a  devoted  correspondent  I  shall  have  ! "  exclaimed 
Mabel.  "  I  must  admit,  I  am  glad  the  necessity  of  answering 
will  not  lie  all  on  me." 

Rend  made  some  light  reproach,  but  immediately  relapsed 
into  his  former  preoccupation.  Without  a  word  having  been 
said  between  him  and  Bethesda  on  the  subject  in  his  mind,  he 
knew  they  were  thoroughly  of  accord.  Her  petite  mine  melan- 
cholique,  which  always  fascinated  Rend,  was  deepened  this 
evening  into  actual  sadness  ;  for  there  hung  over  her  the  shadow 
of  a  speedy  departure  from  Europe,  and,  more  than  all  Europe, 
as  she  dimly  realised,  from  her  mind's  companion. 

There  was  a  little  silence,  then  Mabel  exclaimed  : 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Rend  ?  You  look  as  if  you  were  ponder- 
ing about  a  conspiracy." 

"  Not  a  conspiracy,"  was  the  quick  reply,  "  for  you  are  in 
it;  and  you,  we  well  know,  would  never  be  in  a  conspiracy. 
But,  if  you  will  allow  me,  Madame  Mabelle,  I  will  tell  you  what 
I  was  thinking." 

"  Out  with  it ! "  she  cried.     "  Of  course  you  want  some- 


134  BETHESDA.  [PART  I. 

thing.  I  know  your  clever  ways,  and  your  cajoling  '  Madame 
Mabelle!"' 

She  imitated  him  quite  successfully,  and  there  was  some 
merry  laughter  before  Rend  resumed  : 

"  I  was  querying  whether  it  would  not  be  better  for  me  to 
address  you  one  letter,  and  mademoiselle  the  second.  It  might 
be  better  understood." 

He  waited  to  see  the  effect  of  this  hint  on  a  delicate  subject 
before  proceeding  further.  This  matter,  and  one  other,  were 
the  only  remaining  points  to  be  gained ;  then  the  affair  would 
be  between  him  and  Esda,  and  therefore  absolutely  safe.  He 
watched  Mrs.  Trescott  with  a  veiled  intentness,  remarking  with 
satisfaction  that  Bethesda  had  assumed  the  same  attitude. 

Mabel,  however  skilfully  the  question  had  been  insinuated, 
felt  its  importance ;  but  her  energetic  opposition  was  sapped  by 
that  last  sentence.  What,  indeed,  would  they  think  at  home  1 
Her  impetuous  refusal  was  checked  on  her  very  lips. 

She  glanced  somewhat  helplessly  from  one  to  the  other  of  her 
companions.  Beth  could  not  resist  this  appeal.  At  the  very 
moment  that  Mabel  faltered:  "I  don't  know  —  I  don't  like  it 
— but "  Beth  exclaimed : 

"The  letters  are  to  be  half  for  me  in  any  case,  auntie,  and 
if  it  is  to  make  questions,  I  would  much  prefer  being  open  and 
frank  about  it.  You  would  too,  auntie.  You  always  say  so." 

"  Yes,  but  then "  She  stopped  again,  her  usual  ready 

flow  of  speech  checked  by  this  misery  of  public  opinion. 

"You  are,  of  course,  to  do  entirely  as  you  judge  best, 
madame,"  said  Rend  gently.  "It  rests  with  you  to  decide. 

But  I  should  think  if  you  both  received  letters "  He 

paused  judiciously. 

"Well,  well ! "  exclaimed  Mabel  in  some  impatience.  "Do 
as  you  choose.  After  all.  that  is  the  frank  way,  and  I  hate 
nothing  so  much  as  concealment." 

Rene',  having  gained  his  point,  now  exerted  himself  to  lead 
conversation  and  thoughts  away  from  it,  and  it  was  not  until  the 
next  evening  that  his  final  attack  began. 

It  was  introduced  by  Mrs.  Trescott  herself. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Rend,"  she  said,  at  a  time  when 
Bethesda  was  busied  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  "about  the 
correspondence  between  you  and  Beth.  It  is  right  enough  that 
she  should  receive  her  letters  openly.  It  would  be  wrong  for 


CHAP,  xiv.]  A  LESSON.  135 

her  to  receive  them  at  all  if  that  were  not  the  case ;  but  of 
course  the  letters  are  all  to  be  seen  by  me." 

"  That  is  for  your  niece  to  say,  madame ;  not  me.  I 
would  not  dream  of  dictating  her  actions  in  however  slight 
a  matter." . 

"  Beth,  come  here  ! "  called  Mrs.  Trescott  rather  sharply. 
"  I  must  have  this  affair  well  understood.  In  your  correspond- 
ence with  Rend  I  shall  expect  to  see  all  the  letters.  I  cannot 
permit  it  otherwise.  You  understand  ? " 

The  tone  was  aggressive  and  harsh.  Bethesda  would  always 
have  fired  at  it,  now  she  sprang  into  defiance. 

"  I  have  always  been  in  the  habit  of  showing  you  my  letters, 
Aunt  Mabel,  but  it  has  been  entirely  at  my  own  option,  and  I 
decline  to  allow  it  now  to  be  compelled." 

"  Then  I  refuse  to  let  you  two  correspond  ! " 

Rend  took  up  a  book  from  the  table,  and,  as  he  did  so,  just 
perceptibly  brushed-  Bethesda's  hand.  The  touch  recalled  her 
lessons  in  tact  and  self-control.  She  steadied  herself,  both 
physically  and  mentally  ;  she  stepped  back  to  an  inward  support 
before  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  aunt's  face,  and  said  calmly  : 

"Why,  Aunt  Mabel?" 

"  Because  this  is  a  dangerous  affair,"  burst  out  Mabel ; 
"  because  your  only  safeguard,  to  either  and  both  of  you,  is  to 
have  no  secrecy ;  because  gunpowder  is  most  dangerous  when  it 
is  confined,  and  the  only  way  for  you  to  be  saved  from  imminent 
peril  is  to  have  everything  open ;  otherwise  you  will  be  com- 
promised, otherwise " 

Bethesda  laid  her  hand  closely  over  Mabel's  nervous  fingers, 
and  said  in  a  voice  of  concentrated  dignity  : 

"  Pray,  don't  speak  so.  I  never  refused  to  let  you  see  my 
letters ;  I  only  refused  to  be  coerced.  There  is  no  call  for  me 
to  change  a  lifelong  habit  now." 

"  Then  it  is  understood  that  there  will  be  no  letters  pass 
between  you  which  I  shall  not  read  ? " 

Mabel  looked  with  still  fiery  eyes  from  one  to  the  other,  as 
they  stood  side  by  side.  Rend  waited  for  Bethesda  to  speak, 
and  she  replied  in  a  firm  voice  : 

"  Understood  as  it  always  has  been ;  no  more." 

"Madame,"  said  Rend,  leaning  forward,  "I  am  sure  you 
understand  that  no  letter  I  would  write  to  Bdthesda  could  she 
object  to  have  you  see ;  but  pray  remember,  dear  madame,  that 


136  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

our  compact  is  singular ;  and  that  between  two  writers,  between 
Be'thesda  and  Be'thesda,  there  might  be  much  written  which  you 
would  not  care  to  see." 

"  It  isn't  the  caring  I  think  about,"  exclaimed  Mabel,  speak- 
ing no  longer  sharply;  "you  know  I  don't  speak  from  that 
motive.  It  is  only  my  desire  to  save  you  two  from  the  greatest 
danger."  She  underlined  these  woTds  with  the  full  weight  of 
her  emphatic  voice.  "  The  very  fact  of  knowing  your  letters 
are  to  be  seen  by  a  third  person  will  probably  avert  it.  You 
need  to  take  every  precaution,  I  tell  you.  The  risks  of  your 
position  cannot  be  exaggerated." 

"You  are  quite  right,  no  doubt,  madame,"  said  Rene' 
gravely.  "  It  might  be  a  dangerous  position  for  many.  For 
us,  with  you  to  advise,  its  danger  can  be  easily  avoided." 

Bethesda  moved  a  little  away.  He  felt  that  his  secure 
words  reassured  her,  even  to  herself. 

"See,"  he  continued,  "we  will  do  this,  will  we  not, 
Be'thesda  1  Madame  Mabelle  shall  rest  assured  that,  when  you 
return  to  America,  she  shall  see  all  the  letters  I  send  you ;  and 
she  shall  agree — yes,  madame  ? — that  our  Be'thesda  pages  shall 
be  ours  alone,  even  as  they  are  here." 

"  Until  they  are  published,"  added  Beth  innocently. 

To  this  Mabel  finally  consented. 

"  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  ought,"  she  said,  "  but  I  trust  you  two 
so  completely,  that  you  can  do  anything  with  me.  I  never  did 
have  a  firm  nature.  I  could  always  be  coaxed  out  of  anything 
not  really  wrong." 

The  next  morning,  however,  Mabel  went  to  Beth's  room 
early,  with  a  very  sober  countenance. 

"Beth,"  she  said,  plunging  in  medias  res,  "I  have  been 
thinking  nearly  all  night,  and  I  want  you  to  go  to  London." 

Bethesda  was  about  to  exclaim,  but  restrained  herself. 
Mabel  went  on : 

"  You  see,  matters  between  you  and  Rene*  are  maturing 
fast.  It  is  some  time  yet  before  we  sail.  I  can't  see  where 
this  will  end,  and  neither  can  you.  If  you  go  away  now,  nothing 
further  can  happen.  Evra  will  be  delighted  beyond  measure 
to  see  you ;  I  will  stay  here  and  finish  our  shopping,  and  you 
will  relieve  me  of  great  anxiety." 

"What  has  made  you  so  suddenly  wish  this,  Aunt  Mabel  1" 
asked  Bethesda,  in  a  reticent  tone. 


CHAP,  xiv.]  WORDS WORDS WORDS.  137 

"  Because  every  hour  makes  me  more  anxious.  I  am  afraid 
you  two  are  walking  into  what  you  don't  know.  I  am  sure  he 
already  loves  you,  Beth,  and  you  may,  if  you  stay,  love  him." 

Bethesda  did  not  start  nor  speak,  but  her  face  faded  slowly 
to  a  bloodless  gray. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  dear  little  girl,  I  am  afraid  that  you 
are  sowing  seeds  of  misery  for  your  whole  life.  How  can  I  ever 
forgive  myself  if  your  young  and  lovely  and  promising  life  should 
be  blasted  in  its  bud,  and  through  my  agency  1  It  is  a  terrible 
risk  to  run;  terrible  for  me  as  well  as  you,  darling.  Do  go 
away  while  the  harm  is  yet  undone." 

"  You  think  he  loves  me,"  said  Bethesda,  in  an  intensely 
suppressed  tone.  "  Why  do  you  ?" 

"  Everything  shows  it,  dear ;  all  his  actions,  all  his  words, 
all  his  looks.  I  don't  think  it  will  harm  him,  or  be  anything 
but  happiness  to  him.  He  has  nothing  to  lose,  and  every- 
thing to  gain.  But  you,  dearie,  you  have  all  to  lose,  and 
nothing  to  gain.  It  would  break  my  heart  if  you  should  be 
unhappy." 

"  I  shall  not  be ;  don't  fear  for  me,  auntie.  But  do  you 
suppose  you  are  surely  right  *?  Do  you  think  he  recognises  it 
himself?" 

"  He  may,  and  he  may  not ;  I  can't  say.  Oh,  if  he  were 
only  unmarried,  how  happy  I  should  be  to  do  everything  to 
favour  this  !  You  are  made  for  one  another ;  it  would  have 
been  a  perfect — 

"Hush,  auntie,  please,"  said  Bethesda,  in  a  tone  of  unen- 
durable pain. 

"Now,  perhaps  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  marry,  my 
darling." 

Bethesda  tried  to  recover  herself. 

"  I  probably  never  would  have  married,"  she  said. 

She  moved  away  the  length  of  the  room,  and  then  turned 
with  a  sudden  flash  in  her  eyes  : 

"  Aunt  Mabel,  I  can't  believe  in  this  supposition  of  yours  ! 
You  have  mistaken  him,  as  you  have  me." 

"  I  know  he  loves  you,  Beth,  and  you  may  love  him.  Do 
go  to  London,  dear." 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  it,  at  least  not  with  me.  I  still 
think  you  may  be  mistaken  in  him  as  well." 

"  If  he  should  swear  he  did  not  love  you,  I  would  know 


138  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

better !  I  have  not  lived  as  long  as  I  have  for  nothing.  But 
his  loving  you  I  don't  mind.  He  is  honourable,  and  worthy  of 
the  confidence  I  place  in  him.  It  undoubtedly  makes  him 
happier ;  he  shows  it  in  every  fibre  of  body  and  mind.  But 
you,  darling,  are  growing  thin  and  tired -looking.  Your  sym- 
pathies are  too  strongly  excited,  and  this  emotional  atmosphere 
is  bad  for  you.  It  will  be  a  rest  to  you  to  go  away." 

"  To  Evra?  She  would  kill  me  !"  cried  Beth  involuntarily. 
"  Besides,  there  isn't  any  need,  auntie.  If  you  are  only  afraid 
for  me,  and  think  the  joy  will  outweigh  the  pain  for  him,  why, 
I  will  certainly  stay.  I  can  assure  you  there  is  no  need  of 
doing  otherwise  on  my  account." 

"  It  would  relieve  me  immensely  if  you  would  go  away." 

"You  need  not  be  anxious  about  me;  but,  to  make  you 
quite  easy,  I  will  say  this :  If  I  feel  the  necessity  of  going  to 
London,  I  will  do  so  without  your  asking  me." 

"That  is  a  promise.  Well,  that  does  relieve  me,  for  I 
know  you  are  only  anxious  to  do  right ;  and  I  am  glad  for  you 
to  have  all  the  pleasure  you  can,  and  not  take  pain  with  it." 

Mrs.  Trescott  left  her  then,  but  all  day,  through  dressmakers' 
chatter  and  clerks'  prices  and  praises,  the  conflicting  thoughts 
Mabel  had  brought  uppermost  in  her  mind  haunted  Bethesda 
like  double  and  confusing  shadows.  What  one  would  say,  the 
other  would  contradict ;  what  one  would  insist  upon  as  the 
absolute  necessity,  the  other  would  assert  to  be  needless  and 
silly. 

She  looked  forward  to  the  luncheon -table  to  decide  the 
question.  Then  she  would  see  him,  and  each  minute  action 
should  be  scrutinised.  If  he  loved  her,  she  ought  to  go  away. 
Ought  she?  Why  not  leave  it  to  him,  since  it  was  his  happi- 
ness or  unhappiness  which  was  concerned  1  To  herself,  she  did 
not  lend  a  thought.  Even  when  her  aunt  had  pressed  it  home 
she  had  hardly  thought  of  herself.  That  it  would,  of  course,  be 
happier  for  her  to  stay  she  never  doubted.  The  only  question 
was  :  Would  it  be  right  to  him  ? 

Before  entering  the  luncheon  room  she  stopped  to  lay  aside 
her  things,  and  caught  sight  of  her  face  in  the  glass.  Its  pallor 
and  fatigue  startled  her;  there  were  great  rings  around  her 
eyes,  which  seemed  burning  in  their  sockets.  The  fanciful 
notion  came  to  her  that  they  were  like  inverted  torches,  with 
ashes  thick  about  them. 


CHAP,  xiv.]  UNCONSCIOUS  REASONING.  139 

She  smiled  at  the  fantastic  idea,  rubbed  her  cheeks  hard  to 
rouse  a  little  colour,  and  joined  her  aunt. 

M.  d'Isten  was  not  there.  She  remembered,  now,  that  he 
had  mentioned  having  an  engagement  at  this  time  with  one  of 
the  ministers.  She  felt  cold,  and  lonely,  and  dispirited.  The 
prolonged  suspense  seemed  more  than  she  could  bear.  If  she 
could  have  been  set  down  in  London  that  minute  she  believed 
she  would,  just  from  weariness.  But  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  decide  if  it  were  necessary  for  her  to  leave ;  and,  if  not 
necessary,  why  bring  the  pain  sooner  than  must  be  1 

She  went  upstairs  and  found  on  the  table  a  cluster  of  moss 
roses,  the  stems  held  together  by  a  ring  Kens'  had  taken  to  have 
made  smaller  for  her.  It  was  the  one  he  had  selected,  and 
which  her  aunt  had  given  her  on  her  last  birthday. 

The  glowing  ruby  clasping  the  words,  "  Let  not  grass  grow 
on  the  path  of  friendship,"  seemed  a  direct  answer  to  her  doubts. 
It  made  her  glad  and  light-hearted,  and,  putting  it  on  her  finger, 
she  closed  her  hand  softly  over  it,  and  so  holding  it  on  the  sofa 
a  while  later,  she  fell  asleep. 

Just  before  she  awoke  a  dream  came  to  her,  short  and  vivid. 

She  went  down,  she  dreamed,  with  a  wrecked  ship  in  mid- 
ocean,  but  rising,  caught  the  side  of  a  raft,  and  was  in  compara- 
tive safety.  Then  the  raft  began  to  crumble  ;  the  waves  broke 
over  her  more  and  more.  Suddenly  a  woman  was  tossed  near, 
and  tried  to  catch  the  spar,  too  small,  Bethesda  knew,  to  save 
more  than  one.  At  first  she  did  not  aid  the  woman,  but  allowed 
her  to  have  the  same  chance  she  herself  had  had ;  then,  with 
a  nobler  impulse,  stretched  out  her  hand  to  assist  her.  The 
drowning  creature  grasped  it  convulsively,  and,  in  a  moment, 
shared  her  frail  support. 

But  where  had  she  seen  that  face  1  It  fascinated  her ;  she 
forgot  everything  in  trying  to  solve  the  mystery.  The  woman 
meantime,  realising  the  raft  could  not  save  them  both,  and  see- 
ing Bethesda  absorbed,  gave  her  a  sudden  shove  into  the  foaming 
waves.  And  Bethesda,  her  mind  now  keenly  clear,  exclaimed  : 
Louise ! 

She  sank  down,  down  into  the  green  water,  and  the  woman's 
face,  bent  over  the  edge  of  the  raft,  followed  her  with  wide-dis- 
tended eyes.  "  He  will  hate  me,  hate  me  !"  she  cried  despair- 
ingly ;  and  Bethesda,  still  sinking,  awoke. 


140  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"  Love  in  thy  heart  like  living  waters  rose, 
Thine  own  self  lost  in  the  abounding  flood ; 
So  that  with  thee,  joy,  comfort,  thy  life's  good, 
Thy  youth's  delight,  thy  beauty's  freshest  rose, 
Were  trash,  thy  unregretful  bounty  chose 
Before  loved  feet,  for  softness,  to  be  strewed. " 

W.  C.  ROSCOE. 

THE  evening  came  and  passed ;  the  dreaded  meeting  was  over, 
and  her  worries  had  slipped  from  her,  leaving  her  light  and  glad. 
Why  worry  about  him  1  she  asked  herself.  Women  take  so 
much  upon  themselves ;  they  feel  the  weight  of  the  universe,  of 
every  man  who  likes  them,  upon  their  shoulders  !  "  They  never 
seem  to  remember,"  she  exclaimed  half  aloud,  her  head  defiantly 
poised,  "  that  men  are  also  reasonable  beings,  quite  able  to  take 
care  of  themselves, — probably  much  better  than  we  could  take 
care  of  them  at  our  best.  Leave  each  his  independence  of 
action,  men  as  well  as  women ;  let  them  decide  what  is  right 
for  them,  without  question  from  us,  and  we  the  same.  If  we 
carry  our  own  trials  worthily  it  is  as  much  as  we  are  able  to  do 
— often  more  !  " 

She  worried  all  night,  however,  in  spite  of  her  defiant  words, 
and  at  last  resolved  upon  speaking  to  Kene'  herself  frankly,  and 
asking  him  to  be  strong  with  her  in  combating  any  equivocal 
tendencies  they  might  feel  growing  upon  them.  So  she  wrote 
him  a  note,  asking  him  to  come  to  the  parlour  a  moment.  He 
answered  immediately  in  person,  looking  very  grave,  but  with 
the  greatest  consideration  in  his  manner. 

Mrs.  Trescott  had  already  gone  out,  and  it  was  the  first  time 
the  two  had  met  alone.  He  was  well  aware  that  it  could  only 
be  because  of  something  Bethesda  considered  gravely  important 
that  she  would  have  asked  him  to  come  to  her. 

As  he  entered  he  took  in  the  situation  at  once.  She  was 
dressed  for  the  street,  and  her  hat  lay  upon  the  table.  He  saw 
that  she  was  similarly  prepared  to  leave  him,  unless  he  could 
set  her  anxieties  at  rest. 

She  was  standing,  and  thanked  him  for  coming  so  quickly 
in  a  low,  steady  voice,  which  made  him  seat  himself  in  the  chair 
to  which  she  motioned  him,  ready  to  face  the  worst. 


CHAP,  xv.]  AN  APPEAL.  141 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which  her  hands  clasped  one 
another  closely,  but  in  a  moment  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  met 
his  bravely. 

"  I  asked  you  to  come  here,"  she  said,  "  because  I  feel  that 
we  have  not  been  doing  quite  right  of  late.  I  trust  to  you  to 
understand  me.  I  wished  to  ask  you  to  help  me  in  never  doing 
anything  which  you  could  not  repeat  to  your  wife  without  em- 
barrassment." 

She  stopped,  and  her  breath  came  somewhat  fast,  but  he  did 
not  keep  her  in  suspense. 

"  You  know  that  whatever  you  wish  is  a  command  for  me," 
he  said  earnestly.  "  I  shall  do  as  you  desire  to  the  utmost  of 
my  power." 

"  Thanks,"  she  said,  with  a  glance  from  clear  eyes  which 
already  repaid  him  for  any  sacrifice.  "  I  was  sure  you  would. 
Auntie  wished  me  to  go  to  London,  but  I  thought  we  could  stay 
together  the  short  time  that  remained." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  not  looking  up  now  ;  "we  will  be  strong. 
It  must  be.  We  cannot  help  that ;  we  must  only  strive  to  be 
strong." 

She  did  not  understand  all  his  meaning,  but  she  knew  that 
her  heart  was  crying  out :  Noble,  noble  Rend  !  She  had  more 
confidence  in  him  than  in  herself.  He  was  strong,  and  had  the 
habit  of  many  self-controlled  years  upon  him.  But  when  she 
saw  him  sad,  his  only  opportunity  for  abandon  cut  off — what 
should  she  do  then  ? 

Her  eyes  flashed  to  his  face.  It  impressed  her  profoundly. 
"  I  will  follow  his  example  !"  she  cried  to  herself;  "I  will  be 
brave,  and  pure,  as  he  is." 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  Will  you  tell  your  wife 
openly  of  our  compact  and  our  friendship  ?  She  should  know 
it  all." 

He  hesitated  just  an  instant ;  then  he  said  gravely  : 

"  Since  you  think  it  best,  I  will." 

"Ah,  that  takes  a  weight  from  one's  heart ! "  she  cried. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  frank  gesture  of  grati- 
tude, rising  as  she  did  so. 

He  also  rose,  and  took  her  palm  in  his. 

"Do  not  fear,  Bdthesda,"  he  said;  "we  will  be  strong." 

He  turned,  bowed  profoundly,  and  left  her  ;  and  she  walked 
away  to  the  window,  her  hands  pressed  to  her  heart,  which 


142  BETIIESDA.  [PART  i. 

was  in  strange  confusion,  while  her  soul  was  relieved  and 
thankful. 

Would  she  aid  his  wife,  now,  to  ascend  the  breaking  raft  1 
Yes ;  she  believed  she  would,  She  could  only  try  to  make 
herself  worthy  of  him  by  all  unselfish  actions. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday,  and  an  atmosphere  of 
peace  seemed  to  brood  over  Bethesda,  strangely  sweet  after 
the  turmoil  of  the  last  days.  She  knew,  too,  whence  it  came. 
The  effort  in  the  right  direction  brought  its  own  reward. 
A  feeling  of  righteousness  strengthened  her  to  the  fulfilment 
of  her  resolve ;  and  her  intercourse  with  Rend,  chastened  yet 
constant,  retained  all  its  delight,  without  the  sting  of  possible 
wrong. 

She  won  the  others  to  her  own  feelings  also.  Mrs.  Trescott, 
to  whom  the  interview  and  its  results  had  been  fully  confided, 
felt  almost  as  much  relieved  as  Bethesda.  She  thought  the 
earnest  resolve  of  two  such  natures  could  not  be  without  good 
effect.  And  Rene",  strongly  influenced  by  Bethesda's  dignified, 
yet  touching  appeal,  did  as  she  had  bidden  him,  and  at  least 
followed  where  she  led. 

So  to-day,  spirit  really  seemed  to  be  overcoming  the  laws  of 
nature,  and  the  boon  of  peace  descended  upon  them. 

The  hours  winged  their  way  slowly  by,  fragrant  as  the  June 
breeze ;  still  as  a  floating  bird.  In  the  morning  they  went  across 
the  river  to  church,  and,  in  the  midst  of  holy  pictures,  with  the 
Gothic  arches  clasping  hands  in  prayer  above  them,  they  listened 
to  High  Mass.  The  intervals  were  mellowed  by  organs  answer- 
ing one  another  in  rich  harmony,  that  broadened  and  uplifted 
their  thoughts ;  and,  near  by,  the  cooing  of  a  happy  child  was 
the  sweetest  of  all  the  sounds. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  service  the  baby  stretched  out  its 
arms  to  Bethesda,  and  demanded  imperiously  to  go  to  her.  She 
was  not  loath,  and,  once  in  her  arms,  the  child  became  instantly 
quieted  by  looking  at  her.  She  seemed  to  appeal  to  the  little 
one's  affection,  too,  for  presently  it  put  a  chubby  hand  softly 
on  her  cheek.  Bethesda  caught  the  fingers  to  her  lips  and 
pressed  the  tiny  body  close  with  a  thrill  of  irrepressible  feeling. 
Involuntarily  she  glanced  at  Rend ;  he  was  watching  her  with 
curious  and  pitying  eyes.  He  knew,  and  she  knew — then — 
that  she  would  never  hold  thus  a  child  of  her  own. 

As  they  came  out  she  turned  from  the  church  reluctantly. 


CIIAV.  xv.]  A  DANGEROUS  STEP.  143 

"  I  never  passed  a  happier  hour,"  she  said,  "  and  it  is  our 
last  church  going." 

The  next  week  they  had  planned  to  go  to  Versailles,  and  the 
next — to  think  of  it ! — they  would  have  left  Paris. 

But  this  tranquillity  was  only  the  trembling  stillness  of  a 
spring  when  full  to  the  brim,  just  ready  to  overflow,  either 
to  sink  into  the  ground  or  to  go  streaming  down  the  hills. 
The  next  day  little  signs  and  words  were  like  the  first  trickling 
drops  ;  the  day  after  Bethesda  was  in  the  same  perplexity,  the 
same  half  blind  struggle  for  light  and  knowledge. 

The  same,  and  yet  not  the  same;  for  the  appeal  she 
had  made  and  which  had  been  answered,  she  was  sure,  in  the 
same  earnestness  of  spirit  that  she  had  asked  it,  made  her  lean 
with  fuller  reliance  on  the  strength  she  had  proved  in  Rene'. 
She  knew  herself  strong  enough  to  go  away,  to  .do  anything  she 
could  positively  see  to  be  right ;  and  she  never  doubted  but  that 
he  was  conscious  of  the  same. power  of  self-sacrifice  to  duty. 
How  could  she  doubt  him  when  every  event  of  his  life  had 
evidenced  his  rectitude  and  nobility  ?  So  at  last  she  concluded 
to  ask  him  to  tell  her  what  to  do.  He  could  see,  probably, 
further  than  she ;  he  knew  himself  even  better,  and  whatever  he 
said  would  surely  be  right. 

She  wrote  a  short  note  asking  him  if  she  should  go  to 
London,  and  gave  it  to  him  when  they  met.  She  did  not 
mean  to  be  underhand,  but  it  would  be  easier  for  her  to  wait 
until  she  knew  his  decision  before  she  told  her  aunt.  If  he 
said  go,  it  would  of  course  be  instantly  known ;  if  he  said 
stay,  it  would  be  the  same  as  if  she  had  not  written,  and  the 
subject  was  one  on  which  she  was  glad  to  avoid  unnecessary 
agitation. 

The  evening  passed  with  no  disturbing  elements.  Rend 
could  not  read  the  note  until  he  had  bidden  them  good-night, 
but  he  was  conscious  of  its  presence,  and  suspected  what  it  con- 
tained. There  was  a  perturbation  in  the  girl's  manner,  an 
almost  pleading  look  in  her  eyes,  which  he  interpreted  aright. 
But  he  was  exceedingly  careful  not  to  frighten  her.  An  in- 
cessantly controlled  tenderness,  a  surety  of  himself,  quieted  her 
on.  whichever  side  of  her  question  she  looked.  Her  confi- 
dence grew  as  the  evening  proceeded.  He  would  not  send  her 
away  ;  of  course  not ;  it  was  foolish  in  her  to  think  of  it. 

But,  once  iu  her  room  alone,  with  the  charm  of  his  presence 


144  r.ETliESDA.  [PART  I. 

gone,  and  the  heavens  looking  at  her  in  their  calm  scrutiny, 
she  was  no  longer  so  sure. 

She  could  not  say  then,  or  at  any  future  time,  why  it  was 
that  whenever  she  left  Rend  and  entered  her  own  room  her  first 
impulse  was  to  throw  herself  on  to  her  knees.  There  she  would 
remain  for  hours.  A  few  times  dawn  surprised  her  still  kneeling, 
still  dressed.  Once  or  twice  she  slept,  her  head  pillowed  on  her 
folded  arms. 

But  to-night  the  eagerness  to  know,  or  at  least  to  surmise, 
what  Rend  would  say,  drove  her  up  and  down  the  room  with 
noiseless  steps.  She  almost  regretted  having  left  him  the  de- 
cision, and  yet  she  had  never  relied  upon  him  but  he  had  proved 
himself  strong.  So,  after  every  wavering,  she  came  back  to  the 
thought  that  she  could  trust  him.  He  would  not  send  her  away. 

The  night  passed,  as  it  did  now  more  and  more  frequently,  in 
a  slumber  so  light  that  not  a  breath  was  drawn  unconsciously. 
She  awoke  late,  and  there,  under  the  door,  was  a  letter.  Her 
breath  fluttered  on  her  lips.  She  could  not  reach  out  her  hand 
to  touch  this  missive  of  fate.  Must  she  go  ?  Or  would  he  let 
her  stay  1 

Finally  suspense  became  unbearable  ;  any  knowledge  was 
better.  She  tore  it  open  and  read. 

It  was  not  long,  but  it  worked  a  transfiguration  in  Bethesda's 
nature. 

He  had  seized  upon  the  unrecognised  truth  which  had  dictated 
her  note,  and  showed  it  in  full  stature  to  herself.  What  she  had 
not  dreamed  existed,  he  had  exultingly  seen.  She  was  his  now, 
unmistakably.  He  knew  it,  if  she  did  not  ;  and  the  sure 
taking  possession  which  fascinated  her  never  hesitated. 

"  I  hold  thy  two  hands  in  mine,"  he  wrote,  "  and  bid  thcc 
stay.  I  rejoice  that  when  an  angel  troubled  the  waters  of  thy 
virgin  heart  I,  unlike  the  afflicted  man  who  waited  for  years 
beside  the  pool  in  far-off  Galilee,  am  able  to  step  first  into  the 
sacred  waters,  and  come  forth  restored  and  glad.  Ah,  now  my 
name  has  a  new  significance  !  I  am  truly  reborn,  through  the 
miracle  of  thy  maiden  nature  stirred  for  me  alone. 

"  Fear  not,  Bdthesda,  and  be  not  sad.  We  shall  be  always 
together.  The  breadth  of  the  earth,  and  the  oceans,  of  heaven 
itself,  cannot  divide  us  now." 

Why,  indeed,  should  she  go  away  1    Not  distance,  or  time,  or 


CHAP,  xvi.]  THE  GOLDEN  AGE.  145 

eternity  could  alter  this  truth.  She  loved  him  !  The  whole 
world  might  marvel ;  they  stood  side  by  side,  above  the  world, 
above  circumstances,  above  man,  and  the  devil.  They  were 
supreme,  and  united  by  the  divine  law  of  Love. 

And  she  ? — Why,  the  sunshine  danced,  and  the  wind  was 
full  of  thrilling  melody,  and  every  atom  was  quivering  with  joy 
like  the  air  on  a  heated  hill-top.  There  was  no  more  perplexity, 
nor  trouble,  nor  sorrow.  The  golden  age  had  come.  All  the 
leaves  were  of  pure  silver,  and  the  flowers  priceless  gems ;  the 
very  dust  was  precious,  and  the  rain  a  diamond  shower.  How 
glad  the  world  was  !  there  was  no  unhappiness  anywhere ;  and 
what  supreme  happiness  was  hers  !  And  oh,  poor  auntie,  who 
had  lost,  perhaps,  even  such  delight !  What  would  she,  Bethesda, 
do  if  she  should  lose  it  1  But  she  would  not,  she  could  not.  All 
the  peculiar  circumstances  that  had  brought  her  and  Kene" 
together  could  not  occur  twice,  and  his  existence  was  now  com- 
plete ;  he  himself  had  said  it !  All  else  would  be  superfluous. 
And  for  herself  t  Well,  he  trusted  her,  and  he  knew  her  mar- 
vellously well.  She  made  no  vows,  but  she  thought  he  was  not 
mistaken.  They  would  trust  one  another. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  What  the  law  of  nature  is  in  regard  to  matter  the  moral  law  is  to 
man." 

"  Above  all  right  and  duty  is  love,  leading  lover  and  beloved  to  the 
pure  unfolding  of  their  natures.  Woe  to  those  who  desecrate  its  divine 
mission. " — AUERBACH. 

PERIODS  of  happiness  are,  they  say,  blank  pages  in  history. 
Who  indeed  can  describe  the  processes  of  growth,  the  blossom- 
ing of  a  plant,  the  details  of  a  sunrise  ?  Infinitesimal  atoms 
meet  and  coalesce  and  vibrate  and  increase,  and  after  a  long 
period  we  perceive  a  colour.  The  vibrations  quicken  and  inten- 
sify, and  another  hue  becomes  sensible  to  us.  But  who  can 
trace  the  changing  ?  who  can  see  the  subtle  causes  and  the  still 
subtler  effects  ?  Finally,  when  white  light  is  achieved,  what  is 
it  but  dazzling  radiance  before  which  our  eyes  fall,  blurred, 
blinded,  well-nigh  destroyed  through  excess  of  sight  1 

Rend  d'Isten  was  almost  as  much  astounded  as  Bethesda  at 
the  effulgent  joy  which  now  broke  upon  them.     He  had  of  late 

L 


146  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

known  it  must  come,  and  had  anticipated  it  with  a  calmness 
which  left  him  all  unprepared  for  the  onslaught  of  rapture  which 
assailed  him.  It  was  fiercely  encroaching  ;  it  almost  frightened 
him,  and  yet  it  was  with  a  delicious  fear.  He  was  loved  at 
last ;  loved  by  the  fairest  woman  he  had  ever  seen ;  loved  by  a 
noble  character  and  a  fine  intellect.  He  was,  yes,  surely,  he 
was  content. 

Bethesda  was  more ;  she  was  radiantly  and  gloriously  happy. 
She  asked  nothing  of  life;  existence  had  blossomed  into  its 
rarest  flower  and  placed  it  in  her  hand.  She  was  awed  by  its 
beauty ;  she  was  well-nigh  overpowered  by  its  fragrance.  Each 
moment  throbbed  with  a  million  hearts,  which  yet  seemed  incap- 
able of  containing  her  bliss.  Her  mind  could  not  conceive  its 
extent ;  her  being  could  not  contain  it.  Over  the  whole  world 
it  spread,  making  her  charitable,  pitiful,  tender  to  both  joy  and 
sorrow.  Love  could  not  come  to  her  nature  without  thrilling 
its  finest  fibres.  She  began  to  understand  what  God's  love 
must  be  like,  which  enwraps  the  universe  in  its  warm  folds. 

Transcendently  happy  as  she  was,  it  made  her  only  more 
commiserating  to  the  trials  of  those  not  blessed  as  she  was. 
Her  aunt,  Evra,  Louise,  were  all  bathed  in  a  flood  of  sympathy 
for  their  deprivations.  She  could  not  be  quite  content  unless 
her  happiness  was  made  to  serve  others,  and  she  floated  down 
from  the  heights  of  her  ecstasy  to  do  some  trifling  service  for 
Mrs.  Trescott  with  a  bounteous  grace  never  seen  in  her  before. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Trescott  noticed  the  change,  for  Beth  grew 
more  beautiful  and  stronger  hour  by  hour.  She  never  looked 
tired  now ;  her  steps  seemed  winged  in  their  elastic  freedom ; 
her  form  had  lovelier  curves,  her  flesh  a  softer  lustre.  Her  eyes, 
thought  Rene',  were  a  shining  iridescence  of  light  over  unknown 
and  half-revealed  depths ;  her  mouth  was  embodied  tenderness. 

Mabel  asked  her  one  day  what  had  happened  to  make  her 
so  light-hearted ;  were  all  her  anxieties  gone  1 

11  Yes,"  Bethesda  affirmed  with  absolute  sincerity,  "  there  is 
nothing  more  to  fear.  It  is  all  settled  and  sure,  and  oh  !  so 
restful !  I  did  not  know  it  had  been  wearing  on  me  until  now 
the  weight  is  gone." 

"How  did  it  go,  dear?" 

"All  of  itself,. auntie,"  said  Beth  lightly.  "I  don't  know 
quite  how.  I  only  know  it  is  all  clear  now, — and  do  rejoice 
with  me  !  I  am  so,  so  happy  ! " 


CHAP,  xvi.]  ACQUIESCENCE.  147 

And  Mabel  did  rejoice  with  her.  It  lifted  much  weight 
from  Mrs.  Trescott's  objections  to  see  her  niece  so  radiant  and 
well.  She  knew  that  Rene'  loved  Bethesda,  and  strongly  sus- 
pected that  the  love  was  reciprocated,  although  not  acknowledged 
even  to  the  girl's  own  heart ;  and,  desiring  to  give  them  as 
much  pleasure  as  they  could  have,  allowed  them  to  be  together 
a  large  portion  of  the  time.  They  were  happy  now,  she  argued, 
and  if  the  cost  were  large,  it  was  too  late  not  to  pay  it,  and 
there  was  all  the  more  reason  why  they  should  take  its  full 
value  while  they  might. 

Rene*,  knowing  all,  could  not  comprehend  Mrs.  Trescott's 
actions.  He  was  aware  that  Bethesda  had  not  told  her  aunt 
of  the  two  notes,  for  he  had  gently  insinuated  the  prudence  of 
letting  matters  rest,  and  Bethesda  was  only  too  ready  to  do  so. 
It  was  hardly  ten  days  now  before  they  left,  and  she  had  no 
doubt,  no  acknowledged  doubt,  but  that  her  aunt,  after  a  due 
amount  of  persuasion,  would  consent  to  this,  as  she  had  to  all 
the  rest.  Her  aunt  could  see  all  if  she  chose ;  neither  of  them 
tried  to  conceal  their  spontaneous  actions;  and  since  Mrs. 
Trescott  did  not  speak,  she  probably  did  not  positively  either 
approve  or  disapprove. 

Oftener  and  oftener  now  midnight  found  the  three  still 
together,  and  when  one  night,  in  some  veiled  surprise,  Beth 
referred  to  their  changed  habits,  Mabel  said  : 

"  It  is  not  often  that  such  pleasant  hours  come  in  life,  and 
I  believe  in  taking  the  fulness  of  enjoyment  from  them  while 
they  last.  I  don't  care  to  sit  up  late  just  for  the  idea  of  it, 
but  when  there  is  anything  that  makes  it  worth  while,  no  one 
is  readier  than  I  am  to  let  time  slip  by  unnoticed." 

"  You  are  a  dear  auntie  ! " 

"  Am  1 1  Well,  we  are  enjoying  ourselves  now,  and  on  the 
steamer  we  can  makeup  lost  sleep — when  Rene'  is  no  more  with  us." 

"And  what  will  I  be  doing  then?"  asked  Rend,  a  trifle 
reproachfully. 

"  Oh,  you'll  have  the  peace  to  make  with  all  your  friends," 
said  Mrs.  Trescott.  "  How  many  of  them  have  you  neglected  1 
you,  who  used  always  to  leave  us  at  ten  to  attend  to  social 
duties  !  Do  you  remember  that  evening  when  you  were  going 
to  some  state  affair  and  came  in  here  just  to  show  yourself  in 
all  your  orders,  and  then  never  went  after  all  ?  Tell  me  you 
won't  have  plenty  to  do  in  conciliating  everybody  ! " 


148  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  I  will  succeed,"  he  answered  confidently.  "  My  friends 
now  think  I  am  writing  a  book.  They  ask  me  each  day  how 
it  progresses.  I  tell  them  :  Well,  very  well" 

He  smiled  at  Bethesda,  and  there  was  a  merry  peal  of 
laughter. 

"  When  you  go  away  I  shall  have  finished  my  first  volume. 
Some  will  be  eager  to  see  it,  but  I  shall  make  them  wait  until 
it  is  published.  You  see  I  shall  be  quite  frank." 

"  I  wish  you  would  be  frank  about  everything,"  said  Mabel, 
a  little  soberly. 

"  And  are  we  not,  madame  ?  Our  companionship  is  as  open 
as  the  daylight.  We  need  not  intrude  details  on  all  the  world, 
but  if  they  look  they  can  see." 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  that  is  true.  As  long  as  our  consciences 
are  clear  we  need  not  inquire  the  opinions  of  others.  If  there 
is  one  thing  I  detest  it  is  pandering  to  public  opinion !  Life 
early  took  that  weakness  out  of  me." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bethesda,  a  trifle  wistfully.  "  I  like 
the  good  opinion  of  every  one.  We  were  said  in  Florence,  Rene', 
to  be  the  only  foreign  women  about  whom  there  was  no  gossip. 
That  gratified  me  exceedingly,  I  confess." 

Rene'  glanced  at  her  with  just  a  tinge  of  possible  remorse. 
But  the  present  was  her  own  choice,  and  every  moment  bore 
witness  to  her  happiness  in  it. 

Often  now  Rend  brought  some  manuscript  for  Bethesda  to 
criticise  to  the  parlour  in  the  mornings,  and  as  Mrs.  Trescott 
was  generally  home,  occupied  with  milliners  and  dressmakers, 
but  still  affording  chaperonage,  he  was  gladly  invited  in.  Then 
they  would  take  refuge  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  the  window, 
near  which  was  the  desk,  and  spend  many  happy  hours  oblivious 
of  the  chatter  and  bargaining  going  on  without  their  charmed 
retreat. 

Sometimes,  in  the  interims,  when  the  room  would  be  for  a 
few  moments  empty,  Rend  would  press  his  lips  to  Bethesda's 
firm  hand,  now  lying  relaxed  on  the  desk.  Once  his  moustache 
brushed  her  hair  as  he  looked  over  a  paper  she  held,  and  it 
made  her  curiously  faint.  A  few  days  before  they  left,  in  pick- 
ing up  a  fallen  book,  the  lithe  man  kissed  her  foot. 

She  started  back  at  that,  and  looked  at  him  with  large  eyes. 
His  face  was  glowing.  He  stood  very  close  to  her  and  whis- 
pered : 


CHAP,  xvi.]  A  LIGHTNING  FLASH.  149 

"  I  thought  I  never  should  abase  myself  to  kiss  a  woman's 
foot,  but  I  am  proud  to  kiss  yours." 

She  moved  away,  not  with  coyness,  nor  indignation,  but 
a  feeling  of  solemn  responsibility  seizing  her  heart.  Here 
was  her  woman's  work,  here  duty  was  clear  and  imperative. 
She  must  leave  him  while  he  was  in  this  state ;  but  he  must 
understand  it  was  not  anger,  only  rebuke.  She  turned  when 
she  reached  her  door  and  gave  him  a  glance. 

He  darted  after  her  as  a  needle  to  its  magnet ;  but  she  was 
too  quick  for  him.  With  a  leap  of  the  heart  which  nearly 
stunned  her  she  was  in  her  room,  and  the  door  was  close  shut. 

Then  she  fell  on  her  knees  and,  for  a  moment,  lost  con- 
sciousness. The  gnawing  pain  in  her  heart  roused  her.  She 
did  not  mind  it ;  it  was  sweet  to  her.  Was  she  not  bearing  it 
for  him  1 

"Any  other  pleasures  are  not  worth  love's  pains ;"  and  this 
is  true  even  of  corporeal  pains.  The  terror  Bethesda  had  always 
had  of  the  disease  which  had  killed  her  mother  faded  away  in 
the  desire  to  prove  herself,  by  fire  and  sword,  worthy  of  her 
love. 

Here  was  now  a  palpable  test.  She  who  had  been  blind  to 
nature  before  suddenly  awakened  to  its  terrible  force.  In  her 
hands  lay  the  controlling  and  guiding  power  of  her  own  and 
another's  soul.  She  must,  indeed,  now,  be  his  conscience ;  and 
to  be  this  she  must  follow  her  own.  Their  love,  their  life,  their 
rectitude,  depended  upon  her.  The  awful  responsibility  came 
near  crushing  her  as  she  contemplated  it  and  felt  her  weakness, 
felt  the  omnipotence  this  other  will  held  over  hers,  and  that, 
in  its  despite,  she  must  save  them  both. 

While  she  was  dressing  for  dinner,  a  couple  of  hours  after- 
wards, a  white  missive  came  under  her  door.  Not  a  step  was 
to  be  heard,  but  there  it  lay,  and  presently  she  stooped  to  lift  it. 

He  had  probably  realised  the  delicacy  of  their  position,  and 
had  written  some  apology. 

She  opened  and  read  it,  and  the  announcement  of  dinner 
came  while  she  still  stared  at  the  glowing  epistle.  The  words 
should  have  been  traced  in  flame  to  express  either  the  feelings 
of  writer  or  receiver.  For  it  was  not  an  apology  in  the  least. 
It  was  a  revelling  in  imaginative  visions,  which  wounded 
Bethesda  to  the  quick. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  have  gone  to  London,"  she  murmured, 


150  BETHESDA.  [VAIIT  i. 

as  she  held  the  letter  to  the  caudle  flame.  "  Perhaps  I  have 
hurt  him,  been  a  temptress  to  him,  my  noble,  pure  Rene" !" 

There  was  something  of  the  mother's  regret  in  her  tone,  of 
the  mother's  forgiving  solicitude.  She  would  save  him  from 
himself. 

A  swift  knock  came  at  the  parlour  door.  Ren£  had  called 
for  them  to  go  down  to  dinner.  She  waited  until  she  heard 
her  aunt  come  out,  and  then  joined  them,  keeping  close  beside 
Mrs.  Trescott. 

Rene'  instantly  saw  she  was  grieved,  and  took  the  hint  she 
had  given.  He  devoted  himself  to  Madame  Mabelle  the  whole 
evening.  He  directed  all  his  conversation  to  her,  not  neglecting 
Bethesda,  nor  altering  his  manner  enough  for  her  aunt  to  notice 
it ;  and  contriving,  in  an  inimitable  manner,  to  surround 
Bethesda  with  a  sense  of  entire  submission  to  her  will. 

What  with  this  quick  yielding,  and  discriminating  devotion, 
her  heart  relented.  She  thought  she  had  misjudged  him.  That 
she  should  be  in  fault  here  !  It  was  too  cruelly  mortifying ;  she 
would  never  forgive  herself. 

So  when  they  separated,  a  little  earlier  than  common,  he 
understood  that  his  peace  was  made. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  M.  d'Isten  came  down  the  stairs 
lightly.  He  could  not  sleep;  indeed,  he  had  not  tried,  but 
since  leaving  the  ladies  had  sat  at  his  window  watching  the 
movement  of  the  river  silvered  by  the  moon. 

What  had  been  his  thoughts  during  that  long  reverie  ?  Not 
he  himself  could  say.  His  mind  was  usually  clear  and  precise 
even  in  silence ;  but  to-night  it  was  different.  He  was  letting 
his  memory  slip  back  and  his  imagination  sweep  forwards  with- 
out any  attempt  to  control  either.  He  was  in  that  dangerous 
state  termed  drifting. 

Whither  had  the  imperceptible  waves  carried  him  that  he 
should  now  descend  to  the  lower  hall,  and  cast  on  the  dim  out- 
line of  familiar  surroundings  an  eager  as  well  as  pensive  glance  ? 
Had  the  quiet  quadrangle,  with  its  closed  doors  and  blank  walls, 
taken  the  place  of  those  inexorable  banks  which  imprisoned  the 
creeping  waves  ?  Or  was  he  simply  indulging  a  fancy  for  pacing 
up  and  down  a  larger  space  than  his  room  afforded  on  this 
dreamy  summer  night  *? 

He  had  made  several  slow  turns,  and  was  lingering  in  the 
window  to  breathe  the  cool  night  air,  when  his  attention  was 


CHAP.  XVI.]  DREAMS.  151 

called  into  sudden  action  by  a  sound  in  the  room  near  which  he 
stood.  The  door  noiselessly  opened,  and,  hiding  himself  behind 
the  heavy  curtains,  he  could  see  a  slight  figure  in  trailing  white 
draperies  go  quickly  along  the  hall  to  the  parlour  where  he  had 
passed  so  many  delicious  hours. 

The  door  yielded  to  her  hand,  and  she  went  in,  leaving  it 
ajar.  From  Renews  position  he  could  see  her  cross  the  room 
and  go  to  the  desk  where  they  so  often  consulted  together. 
Paper  after  paper  she  took  out  and  glanced  over  by  the  brilliant 
moonlight.  The  attitudes  she  assumed,  clearly  cut  against  the 
soft  radiance,  were  exquisite.  Once  or  twice,  with  the  little 
impatient  gesture  that  was  delightfully  familiar  to  him,  she 
tossed  the  mantle  of  her  hair  aside,  and  in  falling  its  duskiness 
caught  golden  gleams  that  made  it  seem  alive.  Once  in  the 
midst  of  her  search  she  stood  quite  still.  He  knew  she  was 
troubled.  Was  she  thinking  of  him  1  grieving  over  something 
he  had  said  or  done,  or  something  he  had  failed  to  say  or  do  1 

Finally  she  shut  the  desk  with  the  same  caution  that  had 
guarded  all  her  movements.  Was  she  going  back  to  her  cham- 
ber now,  to  sleep,  to  dream  ? 

The  perturbed  watcher  took  a  step  forward  in  the  compara- 
tive darkness  caused  by  the  closing  of  the  door,  but  instantly 
shrank  back.  She  had  hesitated  a  moment,  and  was  now 
coming  to  the  very  place  where  he  stood. 

He  drew  the  draperies  closer  about  him.  The  sound  of  her 
garments  on  the  wooden  floor  was  the  only  one  to  be  heard. 
The  hum  of  the  city  sank  into  abeyance ;  the  wind  was  suddenly 
still. 

The  man  had  a  remarkable  capacity  for  blotting  himself  out, 
of  which  he  now  made  use  to  the  uttermost,  and  the  volumin- 
ous window-hangings  aided  him  so  successfully  that  there  was 
not  a  thought  in  Bethesda's  mind  of  any  one  being  nearer  than 
her  aunt  as  she  stepped  into  the  embrasure. 

The  moon  shone  here  also,  and  he  could  see,  in  illuminated 
distinctness,  the  soft  pallor  of  her  face  and  the  tremulous  curves 
of  her  mouth.  She  was  thinking  of  him,  surely;  she  was 
grieving  with  virgin  sorrow  over  their  inevitable  separation ; 
listening,  in  the  silence  of  night,  to  the  moan  nature  made  deep 
beneath  the  brave  spirit  which  accepted  a  maimed  lot  as  un- 
rivalled happiness. 

Lovely,  beloved  Esda !  her  lot  was  joined  to  his,  to  his 


152  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

unhappy  destiny.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  he  let  a  feeling  of 
bitterness  towards  Louise  rise  unchecked.  That  her  weakness 
and  petty  ambition  should  have  ruined  the  perfect  union  these 
two  might  have  made  ! 

But  that  was  all  past — an  irrevocable  past, — and  he  was 
going  to  be  "unlike  other  men." 

"Ma  chere,  belle  France  !"  murmured  Bethesda. 

She  had  been  standing  quite  still,  her  eyes  wandering  from 
the  sky  and  trees  to  those  smooth  links  which  had  fascinated 
Rene'  a  while  ago.  Now  he  was  fascinated  in  another  way. 
At  her  low  exclamation  his  heart  beat  tumultuously ;  he  feared 
she  would  hear  its  quick  throb.  Would  her  sensitive  ear  allow 
him  to  escape  undiscovered  t  He  hardly  dared  to  breathe. 

But  she  was  absorbed  in  her  own  dreams.  She  did  not 
hear  the  hurried  heart-beats  so  near  her  own ;  she  did  not  feel 
the  short  breaths  that  almost  touched  her  cheek ;  but,  peculiarly 
open  to  sympathetic  influences  as  she  was,  she  did  feel  the 
magnetism  of  his  presence.  She  moved  a  trifle,  and  leaned 
against  the  casement  within  a  few  inches  of  his  breast.  Her 
face  was  turned  away ;  she  was  so  close  that  he  could  not  see 
her  figure,  but  only  looked  down  upon  her  soft  hair  and  brow. 

He  dared  not  look  !  One  slight  movement  would  enfold  her 
in  his  arms,  and  not  reluctantly,  perhaps  !  That  unconscious 
yielding  to  his  presence  ! — it  was  maddening  ! 

A  long  shudder  passed  over  him,  and  his  eyes  closed. 

The  woman  started  upright.  Had  she  heard  anything, 
felt  anything  1  He  did  not  know ;  he  could  not  care. 

He  did  not  see  her  scan  the  enclosure  with  a  swift  glance, 
nor  witness  the  trembling  of  an  uncomprehended  fear,  but  he 
heard  an  uneasy  half  laugh,  half  sigh,  as  she  moved  quickly  away. 

When  he  again  opened  his  eyes  everything  was  dim.  A 
cloud  had  come  over  the  moon,  and  the  darkness  was  empty  and 
chill. 

He  had  to  feel  his  way  upstairs.  He  did  not  once  look 
behind  him.  Perhaps  he,  too,  was  afraid  of  ghosts. 


CHAP,  xvn.]  EETEEAT.  153 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"Love  is  found  to  consist  in  the  marriage  of  true  minds,  in  a  mutual 
surrender,  in  a  mental  correspondence,  on  which,  in  spite  of  time  and  death, 
constancy  stamps  the  seal  of  immortality,  and  completeness  impresses  the 
semblance  of  infinitude." — SIMPSON'S  Phil,  of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets. 

"  There  may  be  men  who  take  every  moral  height  at  a  dash  ;  but  to 
the  most  of  us  there  must  come  moments  when  our  wills  can  but  just 
rise  and  walk  in  their  sleep." — GEO.  W.  CABLE. 

THE  next  morning  when  M.  d'Isten  entered  the  parlour,  he  saw 
in  an  instant  that  Bethesda,  sitting  in  the  bay  window,  was, 
if  not  angry,  subdued.  He  immediately  crossed  over  to  her 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Bon  jour,  Be'thesda,"  he  said,  with  a  persuasive  smile. 

She  did  not  refuse  him  her  hand,  but  as  the  cold  fingers 
lay  in  his  she  said  low : 

"  I  must  speak  with  you." 

He  was  alarmed  by  her  manner,  and  with  his  usual  skill 
had  in  a  few  moments  arranged  an  excuse  for  a  tete-d-tete. 

"  Behold  me  at  your  orders,"  he  said  then  gravely,  standing 
before  her.  She  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  and  in  a  low  voice 
began  abruptly : 

"Your  letter  yesterday  made  me  sad,  Rene'.  Even  in 
imagination  we  must  not  go  too  far.  Thought  is  free,  you 
say ;  yes,  it  is  free,  and  therefore  it  should  be  so  guided  as  to 
bring  us  the  truest  happiness.  I  am  afraid  we  are  both  falling 
away  from  our  first  conception  of  this  compact :  A  uniting  of 
minds  whose  only  aim  was  literary  development." 

"That  was  all,"  he  said  in  a  tone  between  a  question 
and  a  reproach,  while  he  watched  her  keenly.  Would  she 
fail  him  ? 

"You  said,"  she  continued,  with  downcast  eyes,  "that  I 
helped  you  to  recognise  your  trials  for  what  they  were,  '  the 
work  of  God.'  There  is  nothing  you  could  say  to  give  me 
more  happiness  than  this.  I  wish  always  to  be  an  aid,  never 
a  burden  either  in  thought  or  action ;  but  this  cannot  be  unless 
we  remember  the  circumstances  in  which  we  are  placed  and 
live  accordingly ;  otherwise  we  must  separate  now." 


154  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  Bdthesda  !"  exclaimed  Rend,  in  a  low  tone  of  pain. 

"  I  am  not  angry,"  said  Bethesda  hastily.  "  Do  not  fancy 
that  for  a  moment.  I  am  only  sad  because  it  hurts  me  to 
give  you  pain,  and  yet  I  cannot  do  otherwise.  I  tried  to 
think  last  evening  I  could  let  it  slip  by  without  saying  anything, 
but  it  did  not  seem  right.  I  wish  you  always  for  my  friend, 
Rend ;  we  are  in  a  most  difficult  position ;  we  must  look 
closely  where  we  step,  and  when  your  poetic  fancy  dazzles  you 
with  its  impossible  possibilities  I  must  be  clear-sighted,  and 
turn  you  from  the  dangerous  path." 

Perhaps  the  effect  of  such  words  as  these,  with  their  en- 
deavour to  recall  cooler  relations  by  calling  passion  "poetic," 
and  fervour  "  fancy " — by  letting  fall  the  snow  of  prudence 
on  the  fires  of  tumultuous  feeling — can  be  somewhat  imagined, 
coming  to  Rend  after  an  apparition  such  as  that  of  the  night 
before,  and  the  suppositions  he  had  had  of  the  fair  ghost's 
musings  now  so  coldly  belied. 

He  felt  thwarted  and  hurt.  If  his  emotions  had  not  ob- 
scured his  usual  insight  he  might  easily  have  seen  the  subdued 
yearning  which  underlay  every  sentence  of  the  seemingly  chill 
words ;  but  no  amount  of  insight  could  have  taught  him  now 
so  well  as  the  imperious  instinct  he  followed. 

He  bent  before  her  without  a  word,  lifted  her  hands  to  his 
trembling  lips,  and  with  swift  steps  left  the  enclosure  and  the 
apartment. 

He  remained  in  his  room  the  whole  morning,  feeling  keenly 
the  poignancy  of  his  position ;  feeling  thrown  back  upon  him- 
self as  nothing  had  ever  made  him  feel  before.  It  was  not 
her  fault  nor  his,  he  told  himself;  there  was  nothing  to  con- 
quer or  evade.  She  was  right ;  their  cruel  position  constrained 
them,  and  the  outstretched  wings  were  clipped  and  cramped 
back  into  the  cage. 

At  noon  he  let  luncheon  slip  by  unnoticed,  and  later,  when 
he  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  ministere,  he  stole  downstairs  with 
the  utmost  caution  that  Bethesda  should  not  hear  his  step. 
He  returned,  looking  haggard.  Like  Bethesda,  mental  agitation 
told  quickly  on  his  physique.  He  went  to  his  room  with  a 
springless  -step,  and  let  himself  fall  desolately  into  a  chair. 

A  cynical  observer  might  have  said  he  was  taking  the 
luxury  of  misery,  but  he  would  have  been  unjust.  Rend 
d'Isten's  temperament  was  essentially  poetic, — that  is,  he  felt 


CHAP,  xvu.]  SUBMISSION.  155 

through  the  imagination  as  well  as  the  emotions.  Everything 
was  heightened  by  this  double  focus.  It  was  his  misfortune 
in  many  cases,  as  it  was  his  delight  in  others.  His  tendency 
was  to  go  to  extremes,  and  only  by  the  necessary  education  of* 
exact  self-government  had  this  quality  been  subdued.  Now, 
in  the  relaxation  of  severe  discipline,  it  had  its  revenge,  and 
his  trouble  was  not  exaggerated  but  intensely  felt. 

He  went  down  to  dinner  before  any  one  else,  took  a  plate 
of  soup,  and  hurried  away.  He  could  not  eat,  and  he  did  not 
wish  to  meet  any  one.  The  ladies  knew  he  had  an  engage- 
ment that  evening  which  must  be  fulfilled.  It  had  been  often 
deplored  in  advance ;  now,  he  was  grateful  for  it.  He  could 
not  endure  to  enter  their  accustomed  circle  with  the  necessity 
of  repression  upon  him. 

Yet  he  longed  inexpressibly  to  see  Be'thesda.  The  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  went  blindly  upstairs.  He  heard  the 
parlour  door  open  and  then  their  voices.  Mabel  was  wonder- 
ing where  Kene"  was,  and  looking  up  and  down  the  stairs  for 
him. 

No  retreat  was  possible.     He  stepped  into  a  recess  to  make 
way  for  them,  and  to  be  in  the  shade.     As  Mabel  swept  past, 
thinking  he  would,  of  course,  follow  them,  she  said  reproachfully : 
•  "  Why  didn't  you  wait  for  us  ?" 

He  did  not  answer,  and  Bethesda  looked  up  in  quick  alarm, 
all  the  fears  of  the  day  crystallised  in  an  instant. 

Her  searching  glance  called  him  forth  from  silence  and 
shadow.  She  saw  his  pallid  face  with  lines  of  pain  heavily 
drawn  upon  it,  and  she  stopped  at  once. 

"  I  have  been  to  dinner,"  he  said  in  a  husky  voice. 

"Can  I  do  nothing  for  you?"  she  exclaimed  from  her 
heart.  "  What  has  happened  1" 

Her  yearning  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  and  the  tears 
sprang  to  his  very  eyelids  in  reply. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  he  murmured  ;  "  only,  do  not  grieve." 

Then,  with  a  wild  impulse  of  absolute  submission,  he 
took  her  hand  as  she  stood  above  him,  and,  bending  low, 
laid  it  upon  his  head. 

A  second  later  he  sprang  past  her,  and  ran  upstairs. 

Bethesda  joined  her  aunt,  her  brain  in  a  whirl.  "Was  she 
the  cause  of  all  this  suffering ;  she,  who  would  not  hurt  him 
for  worlds  ? 


156  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  Where  is  Rend  1"  asked  Mrs.  Trescott,  surprised  to  see 
her  alone. 

Bethesda  composed  herself  to  answer,  and  shield  him. 

"  He  has  had  his  dinner.  He  is  going  out,  you  remember, 
and  took  it  early." 

The  evening,  so  rare  to  be  spent  alone,  was  lonely. 

"  Dear  me,  how  we  shall  miss  Rend  ! "  sighed  Mabel,  and 
Bethesda  shuddered. 

Before  she  slept  she  wrote  him  wildly,  beseeching  him  not 
to  think  her  cruel,  that  she  was  as  much  hurt  as  he ;  more, 
since  she  had  to  deal  the  blow.  "  Be  the  same  as  before  your 
last  letter;  those  were  happy  days.  I  cling  close  to  my 
friends;  even  if  unwise,  I  cling  close  to  you.  Don't  hold 
me  away !" 

She  despatched  this  in  the  morning  by  the  servant  who 
brought  her  coffee ;  and  Rend  answered  it  immediately,  a 
delicate,  deferential,  yet  tender  letter,  which  added  much  to 
Bethesda's  admiration  for  him.  He  was  always  so  ready  to 
admit  a  mistake,  so  fearlessly  humble ;  and  to  think  that  she 
should  hold  the  reins  of  such  a  nature  ! 

When  they  met  Rend's  old  manner  was  entirely  restored. 
A  healthier  reaction  had  set  in  before  he  received  Bethesda's 
letter,  and  that,  with  its  clinging  dependence,  never  fully 
evidenced  before,  compensated  him  for  the  misunderstanding, 
which,  after  all,  was  not  entirely  pain. 

He  knew  well  that  a  stream  cannot  be  turned  backwards 
by  any  slight  means ;  and  that  a  fall,  no  matter  how  short, 
makes  the  current  surer  and  swifter  for  a  while.  How  often 
had  Bethesda  fondly  imagined  a  few  words  would  restore  the 
waters  to  their  tiny  spring,  there  to  be  safely  contained,  and 
never,  oh,  never,  to  overflow  again  ! 

Rend  knew  better.  The  spring  had  made  a  stream,  and 
the  stream  a  river  ;  the  current  was  strong,  the  waters  many ; 
it  must  inevitably  flow  into  the  sea ;  indeed,  it  was  already 
exchanging  its  onward  current  for  the  recurrent  tide.  What 
Bethesda  mistook  for  a  turning  of  the  flood  in  an  old  direction 
was  but  the  ebb  of  an  everlasting  sea ;  and  the  ebb  was  only 
a  gathering  of  forces  for  the  new  flow. 

Slowly,  imperceptibly  to  her,  yet  how  fatally  swift !  the 
tide  crept  up.  What  had  been  at  one  time  forbidden  or 
deplored  was  now  accepted  without  a  thought;  what  had 


CHAP.  XVIL]  THE  FLOOD-TIDE.  157 

been  the  cause  of  gentle  rebuke  was  now  an  unquestioned 
pleasure.  The  shining  ripples  played  about  Bethesda's  feet, 
and  she  delighted  in  them,  standing  on  the  shore  of  that  fatal 
sea.  The  spray  shone  crystal -clear,  and  threw  itself  lightly 
to  her  lips,  her  eyes ;  she  brushed  it  away  at  first,  then  en- 
joyed the  fresh  free  touch,  and  let  it  blind  her  sight. 

The  waves  crept  higher,  and  she  threw  herself  in  a  delicious 
rapture  on  the  smooth  surface,  and  let  herself  drift  with  them 
to  feel  their  buoyancy  and  strength.  She  did  not  doubt  an 
instant  but  that  she  could  touch  her  feet,  and  the  waves 
would,  in  any  case,  carry  her  back  presently ;  and  she  smiled 
at  the  receding  shore. 

It  all  seemed  to  her  so  peaceful  and  calm  that  she  could 
not  believe  it  was  fraught  with  the  most  imminent  danger.  The 
mighty  power  to  which  she  and  Rene'  were  now  equally  subdued 
asserted  its  supremacy  over  all  circumstances,  over  all  adven- 
titious facts.  Thought  was  free ;  love  was  free ;  sympathy  of 
mind  and  heart  could  not  be  chained ;  it  overarched  all  as  the 
sky  does  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  men. 

But  deeds  could  be  controlled.  Here  the  clear-sighted 
resolve  of  a  lifetime  strengthened  Rene*  to  obey  what  he  knew 
was  right  in  Bethesda's  prohibitions,  and  the  intuitive  cleaving 
to  purity  held  Bethesda  to  moral  action. 

The  terrible  undertow  of  passion  they  did  not  recognise  at 
the  time.  It  was  only  an  instinctive  effort  that  they  made  to 
keep  on  the  surface ;  and  the  waters  were  exquisitely  beautiful, 
and  elastic,  and  strong ;  and  soon,  oh,  so  cruelly  soon  !  they 
were  to  take  separate  paths  along  the  shore,  and  might  never  be 
again  together.  Let  them  enjoy  it  while  they  could,  since  life 
would  be  dry  hereafter. 

Their  separation  was,  indeed,  now  drawing  very  near,  and 
already  darkened  their  hopes. 

"I  shall  come  to  America,  do  not  fear,"  said  Rene',  for 
Bethesda  was  haunted  with  a  horrible  sense  of  the  frailty  of 
their  imaginative  fabric.  "  I  shall  come,"  he  repeated.  "  Every 
step  I  advance  in  my  career  will  bring  me  nearer  to  the  day 
when  I  shall  meet  you  there.  Trust  me,  Esda ;  before  many 
years  I  will  be  in  the  corps  diplomatique  of  Washington." 

Bethesda  did  not  reply.  She  had  often  wondered  why  it 
was  that  Rene'  looked  forward  to  the  coming  years  with  so  much 
less  apprehension  and  intolerable  weariness  than  herself. 


158  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

After  much  veiled  scrutiny  and  careful  study,  however, 
through  a  judgment  unobscured  by  pique — for  she  was  of  a 
large  enough  nature  to  give  gold  for  silver  and  never  count  the 
cost — she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  because  he  had 
long  looked  forward  hopelessly,  decades  stretching  before  him  in 
sterile  monotony,  and  that  now  he  saw  them  transfigured  by  a 
warm  light,  and  blossoming  with  all  the  delectable  flowers  of 
sympathy,  so  that,  naturally,  the  change  was  only  a  delight. 

With  herself,  she  thought  quite  simply,  it  was  different. 

When  she  once  comprehended  this  she  listened  without  fear, 
but  feeling  a  strange  sense  of  incompetence  in  understanding,  to 
his  plans  for  six,  eight,  ten,  twenty  years  ahead.  Was  she 
going  to  live  all  these  alone  *?  Her  mind  refused  to  grasp  the 
sum  of  this  enormous  debt.  It  was  just  as  well,  better  indeed, 
that  it  did.  We  can  take  step  after  step  for  a  long  time,  but 
if  we  had  to  leap  them  all  at  once, — well,  we  should  probably 
break  our  necks. 

"Kemember,  Esda,"  said  Rene",  after  a  pause,  "remember, 
thou  must  never  desert  me.  Promise  me  that  if  thou  art  ill 
unto  death,  thou  wilt  send  for  me.  From  the  furthest  point  of 
the  earth  I  will  come  to  thee." 

"  It  might  not  be  right.  Never  let  me  interfere  with  duty. 
But  auntie  is  the  one  to  ask  for  that." 

"  I  will,  to-night." 

"And  if  you  are  ill?" 

"  Thou  shalt  know  it,  and  when  I  die,  all  our  letters  and 
papers  will  be  sent  to  you.  I  have  arranged  it.  I  can  make 
myself  obeyed  even  in  death." 

In  spite  of  these  lugubrious  conversations  the  last  days 
were  happy  ones.  Kene',  except  in  moments  on  which  he  re- 
fused to  let  himself  dwell,  felt  his  life  full.  And  Bethesda  felt 
that  pain  slept  while  he  was  present.  Deep  in  her  conscious- 
ness she  was  aware  of  something  ready  to  spring  upon  her  like 
a  wild,  ravenous  beast,  but  now  it  was  chained,  and  she  turned 
her  back  upon  it. 

Mrs.  Trescott  was  sick  at  heart  in  watching  her.  Without 
knowing  that  the  girl  recognised  it,  she  did  know  that  Rene' 
d'Isten  held  her  darling's  love,  and  she  cried  out  passionately 
against  the  sorrow  and  suffering  such  a  lot  would  bring.  The 
girl  had  changed  before  her  eyes.  She  was  no  longer  her  little 
niece  ;  she  was  a  deep-souled  woman,  with  wide  capacities  which 


CHAP,  xvii.]  A  QUEEN.  159 

no  one  knew.  Even  Mrs.  Trescott  doubted  if  she  knew  her 
thoroughly  now.  And  extraordinary  natures  must  be  extra- 
ordinarily treated.  A  few  days,  and  this  dangerous  intimacy 
would  cease ;  a  couple  of  weeks,  and  the  ocean  would  gradually 
,  divide  these  characters  now  being  welded  into  one. 

With  cruel  celerity  the  last  day  approached.  It  was  the 
evening  before  their  departure,  and  at  an  early  hour  next  morn- 
ing the  train  would  leave.  Mrs.  Trescott  was  in  her  travelling- 
dress,  but  Bethesda  wore  a  black  dress,  long,  and  plain,  with 
deep  lace  cuffs  and  collar,  from  which  her  head  rose,  on  its  full 
throat,  unusually  severe  and  classical. 

She  was  looking  every  inch  a  queen  o'er  herself,  and  yet 
Rene'  knew  what  turbulent  vassals  she  had  to  control. 

He  could  not  believe  the  hour  was  so  near ;  but  he  braced 
himself  to  bear  the  inevitable  with  his  usual  firmness.  When 
they  went  how  much  happiness  they  would  leave  behind  them  ! 
Paris  would  no  longer  be  the  same  hollow  city,  with  an  empty 
heart  beneath  its  gaiety. 

He  said  something  of  the  kind ;  he  knew  it  would  comfort 
Bethesda,  and  he  knew,  too,  she  needed  comfort.  Her  large 
eyes  shone  upon  him,  now,  in  the  deep  devotion  which  yet  did 
not  wholly  fill  their  capacity. 

"You  are  happier  for  our  coming,  Rene' ?"  she  said,  the  least 
bit  wistfully. 

He  answered  by  holding  out  his  hand  towards  her  across 
the  table.  She  put  hers  in  it,  thimble,  needle,  and  all. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  of  my  pricking  you  1 " 

"  I  know  you  would  not  hurt  me." 

"  True,"  she  replied,  with  undue  solemnity.  "  The  needle 
would  have  to  pierce  my  finger  before  it  reached  yours." 

"  Such  a  remark  should  come  from  ReneY'  said  Mrs.  Trescott. 
"  He  should  be  the  one  to  save  the  other  pain." 

"  Of  course  he  would ;  but  need  I  be  behind  him  in  it  ?  A 
woman  may  suffer  to  save,  as  well  as  a  man." 

"  You  will  be  your  husband's  slave  yet,  with  such  notions, 
Beth." 

"  I  think  not,  auntie,"  said  Bethesda  gravely,  letting  her 
eyes  fall,  and  drawing  away  her  hand. 

"  A  man  loves  a  woman  just  in  proportion  to  the  amount 
she  exacts  from  him.  If  you  accept  all,  and  do  nothing,  he  will 
be  absolutely  devoted." 


160  BETHESDA.  [PART  I. 

"I  would  prefer  losing  love  than  degrading  myself  to  ob- 
tain it." 

"You'll  get  over  all  that  when  you  are  dependent  on  a 
man's  affections.  You'll  have  to  learn  wisdom  then.  When 
you  marry  we'll  see." 

"  I  shall  never  marry." 

"How  are  you  going  to  avoid  it,  Esda?"  asked  Rene', 
quietly. 

"  How  1 "  was  the  startled  response.  "  What  do  you  mean  ? 
I  can  decline  if  need  be,  I  suppose." 

"  But  what  if  Madame  Mabelle  should  marry  again,  and 
you  should  be  left  alone  V 

"  There  is  Margaret,  and  Aunt  Agatha  too.  But  Margaret 
and  I  could  easily  live  alone  together,  if  it  were  necessary." 

"  She  may  marry  too." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  incapable  of  living  entirely  alone.  Others 
have  done  it,  and  I  can.  Certainly,  nothing  should  force  me  into 
a  marriage  contrary  to  my  inclinations.  I  despise -" 

She  broke  off  short.  She  had  been  about,  inadvertently,  to 
blame  Louise.  But  Rene'  did  not  notice  the  abrupt  termination, 
for  he  was  thinking  deeply. 

"  Oh,  see  the  moon,"  exclaimed  Mabel  just  then,  and  she 
went  to  the  window.  "  Come,  Beth,"  she  cried;  "look  at  our 
last  European  moon." 

The  others  rose  at  this,  and  joined  her.  The  sky  was  still 
bright  with  the  sunset  reflections,  and  the  slender  crescent  was 
reaping  in  a  green  field. 

"  I  shall  never  see  the  western  glories  henceforth,"  said 
Rene',  "  without  remembering  that  they  are  caused  by  the  trea- 
sure beneath  the  sky." 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  talk  poetry  I  will  withdraw  ! " 
exclaimed  Mabel,  and  went  back  to  her  seat  restlessly. 

There  was  a  little  pause  on  the  balcony,  then  Rend  whispered : 

"  Thou  art  like  the  moon,  Esda,  and  thou  drawest  me  in 
every  drop  of  my  veins,  as  the  moon  draws  the  sea," 

She  did  not  reply,  but  her  face  was  eloquent. 

Presently  she  began  to  say : 

"  You  know  sometimes  it  is  said  that  the  old  moon  is  in 
the  arms  of  the  new,  and  that  the  effect  is  caused  by  the  earth's 
light  shining  on  the  shadowed  portion,  and  the  sun's  Jight  on 
the  other.  There's  a  little  lesson  in  science  for  you,  and  here's 


CHAP,  xvii.]  POSSIBLE  ENEMIES.  161 

one — in  a  deeper  science  perhaps.  You  can  think,  if  you  like, 
when  you  see  the  moon  so,  that  where  others  shine  on  me,  and 
where  you  shine  on  me,  Rene",  there  is  the  same  difference." 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  pathetic  loveliness  in  the  last  words, 
and  Rene*  felt  almost  a  sense  of  awe  at  the  thought  of  his  having, 
for  ever,  this  woman's  devotion. 

"  I  am  as  far  from  you,  Esda,  as  Endymion  from  Diana," 
he  said,  somewhat  sadly ;  and  he  did  not  even  touch  her  hand. 

"  Three  weeks  from  day  after  to-morrow,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Trescott,  as  they  returned  to  the  parlour,  "we  will  be  with 
Margaret  and  Agatha.  I  would  like  to  see  you  try  to  win  her 
over,"  she  added  abruptly,  "  if  she  didn't  take  a  fancy  to  you, 
Rend." 

He  laughed  a  little,  as  he  asked : 

"  Is  she  so  very  obdurate  1 " 

"  No  cajoling  could  cloud  her  judgment  an  instant,"  was 
the  decided  answer. 

"  That  is  hardly  the  way  Rene*  would  take  to  win  her 
esteem,"  remarked  Bethesda.  "She  is  eminently  one  whose 
respect  can  be  commanded,  for  she  is  very  just." 

Rend  gave  her  a  sharp  glance,  and  presently  led  her  to  talk 
about  this  Aunt  Agatha  and  her  husband.  It  was  highly  advis- 
able that  he  should  know  as  much  as  possible  of  the  characters 
with  which  he  would  have  to  deal  in  meeting  Bethesda  in 
America. 

These  two  might  be  somewhat  formidable,  he  soon  surmised, 
but  he  had  no  fear.  Bethesda  was  bound  to  him  by  all  the 
fidelity  of  her  nature ;  he  believed  she  would  rather  leave  all 
her  friends  than  cast  him  off;  and  within  a  few  months  she 
would  be  her  own  mistress,  and  with  money  at  her  arbitrary 
command.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  look  clearly  in  the  face  the 
possibility  of  her  living  alone — with  some  staid  chaperone,  of 
course — alienated  from  her  friends,  because  of  her  devotion  to 
him.  His  ideal  woman  would  rather  suffer  this  than  submit 
to  any  strictures  on  her  love ;  and,  with  all  his  experience,  he 
had  come  to  have  such  confidence  in  Bethesda  that  he  believed 
her  to  exemplify  his  ideal  in  every  respect. 

But  this  life  alone  was  only  a  matter  of  extreme  emergency. 
She  had  tact ;  he  counselled  her,  directly  and  indirectly,  to  use 
it.  There  was  no  need  of  offending  her  family;  no  sacri- 
fice would  be  asked  if  she  concealed  what  little  Madame 

M 


162  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

Mabelle  did  not  know,  and  go  her  own  way  without  consulting 
others. 

He  stimulated  her  ambition  also,  both  as  woman  and  as 
artist.  He  wished  her  to  shine  in  society ;  to  take  her  place  as 
queen  of  her  peers.  He  desired  to  have  increasing  cause  to  be 
proud  of  her,  and  to  think  that  this  beautiful,  cultured  woman, 
whom  many  adored,  was  inalienably  his.  The  more  renowned 
she  became,  the  loftier  grew  his  station ;  the  more  suitors  she 
refused,  the  more  triumph  for  him.  She  should  be  a  brilliant 
woman,  and  a  woman  of  intellect,  and,  in  both  positions,  feel 
her  dependence  on  him. 

She  was  not  slow  in  responding  to  the  carefully  concocted 
excitant.  If  she  wondered  at  his  lack  of  jealousy,  she  argued 
that  it  only  proved  his  absolute  faith  in  her,  and  no  vows  were 
needed  in  her  determination  to  be  worthy  of  such  trust. 

At  no  time  were  the  anxieties  and  embarrassments  of  the 
life  she  had  planned,  ignored.  Neither  were  the  shadows  and 
sorrows  unrecognised ;  indeed,  she  comforted  herself  with  the 
thought  that,  since  life  can  never  be  unmixed  joy,  the  very 
rocks  in  her  path  were  assurances  of  its  stability.  Were  it 
otherwise,  it  would  be  too  ethereal  to  endure. 

The  transmutation  of  forces  gained  mutually  by  Rene'  and 
Bethesda  caused  him  to  feel  far  more  deeply  than  even  before, 
and  had  developed  in  her  the  use  of  her  eyes.  No  longer  was 
one  to  be  controlled  by  simple  intelligence,  or  the  other  by 
intuition.  They  exchanged  their  distinguishing  masculine  and 
feminine  attributes,  and  each  partook  of  the  strength  of  the 
other.  In  seeking  Bethesda's  intellect  Rene'  had  been  roused 
to  the  enthusiasm  of  her  emotional  nature,  and  that  now  in- 
undated all  primary  aims.  In  responding  to  the  claims  of 
Renews  intellect,  hence  finding  the  need  of  reason  and  discrimina- 
tion, Bethesda  developed  her  natural  capacities  with  rapidity. 
Through  her  he  found  the  passion  which  warms ;  through  him, 
she  found  the  reason  which  steadies.  She  no  longer  was  tossed 
from  this  to  that,  but  had  some  things  in  which  she  could 
trust,  some  ideas  by  which  she  could  hold  firm ;  and  his  life 
was  no  longer  that  of  an  observer  from  a  lonely  standpoint, 
but  the  intense  existence  of  eager  participation,  striving  for  the 
best. 

Such  were  they  to  one  another,  and  now  they  were  to 
separate. 


CHAP.  XVII.]  A   VOW.  163 

The  last  evening  lingered,  and  refortified  itself,  and  lingered 
again.  How  could  they  break  it  off?  But,  finally,  Mrs.  Trescott 
insisted  on  prudence,  called  attention  to  Beth's  weariness,  and 
reminded  them  of  the  fact  that  to-morrow  they  would  meet  at 
an  early  hour.  So  the  last  good-nights  were  said,  and  Kene'  left. 

Bethesda  proceeded  to  gather  up  her  work  in  silence,  and 
with  an  unconquerable  languor ;  Mabel,  watching  her,  did  not 
even  dare  say,  Be  brave !  for  fear  the  recognition  of  her  trial 
would  overpower  her.  It  was  hard  now,  but  once  away,  once 
in  America,  matters  would  change ;  she  was  confident  of  that. 
Beth  was  a  girl  naturally  absorbed  by  the  present,  she  reasoned ; 
the  future  would  be  a  new  present,  and  she  would  be  absorbed 
by  that.  It  may  be  seen  that  Mrs.  Trescott's  philosophy  was 
easy,  and,  fitting  herself,  fitted  every  one  else,  in  her  opinion, 
equally  well. 

When  Bethesda  bade  her  good-night,  and  went  out  into  the 
now  dark  hall,  and  was  just  about  to  open  her  own  door,  a  voice 
close  beside  her  said  softly: 

"Esda!" 

She  started,  but  made  no  sound. 

"  I  could  not  leave  you  so,  this  last  night,"  whispered  Kene". 
"Tell  me  now,  Esda,  good-night." 

He  held  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  drew  her  towards  him. 
For  a  moment  she  did  not  resist.  She  was  longing  for  paralysis, 
for  death,  for  anything  that  would  not  tear  her  away. 

Then  she  conquered  her  weakness,  and  stood  upright,  dis- 
engaging even  her  hands.  He  allowed  it,  but  said  in  a  tone  of 
reproach  her  name  again. 

"Oh,  Kene'!"  she  exclaimed,  in  an  agonised  whisper;  "I 
cannot  bear  it !" 

"Courage!"  he  said,  startled  by  her  voice.  "We  will 
never  be  apart.  And  now,  only  good-night ! " 

He  had  secured  her  hand  as  she  thrust  it  from  her,  in  the 
sudden  access  of  despair,  and  pressed  it  to  his  forehead,  and 
eyes,  and  mouth.  He  knelt  before  her  in  the  glimmering  dark- 
ness, and  laid  the  soft  palm  on  his  head — a  proud  head  that 
had  never  bowed  to  any  one  but  her. 

"I  am  all  yours,  Esda,"  he  said  solemnly,  as  if  taking  a 
vow. 

His  outstretched  arms  sank  until  they  formed  a  circle 
around  her  feet ;  he  pressed  his  lips  to  one  arched  instep,  and 


164  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

then  the  other;  and  she,  wildly,  let  him  do  it.  Her  whole 
soul  was  in  a  tumult,  a  deafening  uproar  of  passion  and  woe ; 
and  yet  not  a  sound  escaped  into  the  still  night. 

At  last,  with  a  violent  effort,  she  moved,  and  said,  in  accents 
he  never  forgot : 

"Go!  Go!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  without  touching  so  much  as  a  fold 
of  her  long  black  robes,  and  she,  laboriously,  painfully,  turned 
and  entered  her  room. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken,  and  before  the  door  closed  he  went 
quickly  away. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  She  felt  like  one  locked  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  all  alone  —  alone  with 
all  the  ravishing  flowers,  alone  with  all  the  lions  and  tigers.  She  wished 
she  had  told  the  secret  when  it  was  small.  ...  At  first  it  had  been  but 
a  garland,  then  it  had  become  a  chain,  now  it  was  a  ball  and  chain." 

GEO.  W.  CABLE. 

"  No  one  can  save  you  but  yourself,  for  no  one  can  so  often  tell  you 
the  truth."  —  AUERBACH. 


went  with  his  friends  as  far  as  Calais,  and  as  the  train 
sped  through  their  dear  France  with  a  swiftness  Bethesda  longed 
unceasingly  to  clog,  a  quietude  in  her  companions  made  Mabel 
declare  she  would  try  a  nap.  Rene'  assisted  her  to  make  herself 
comfortable,  and  then  returned  to  his  seat  beside  Bethesda.  She 
was  pale  this  morning,  but  brave,  and  Rend  kept  constantly  in 
both  their  minds  the  fact  that  she  or  her  aunt  should  have  a 
daily  good-morning  from  him  while  in  England,  and  frequent 
letters  in  America  ;  and  Bethesda  responded  to  it  all  with  an 
eagerness  to  be  hopeful  that  was  akin  to  pain. 

There  came  a  somewhat  serious  pause  at  last,  however,  which 
Bethesda  broke  by  saying  : 

"  Who  would  ever  have  thought  we  should  like  one  another, 
from  the  way  we  first  met  ?  Do  you  know,  auntie  has  never 
told  me  what  that  quarrel  was  1  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  it  !  It  was  a  foolish  affair  ;  I  cannot 
understand  myself  in  it  —  now." 

"  Had  you  not  better  tell  me  1  "  asked  Bethesda,  a  grave 
trust  in  her  voice.  "  Auntie  will  be  sure  to  make  me  know 


CHAP,  xviii.]  CONFESSION.  165 

some  time.  I  have  already  avoided  it  many  times.  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  rather  I  should  hear  it  first  from  you." 

"  My  invaluable  guide ! "  exclaimed  Bend.  But  he  hesitated ; 
his  brows  contracted,  and  he  flushed  a  little.  Then  he  said : 
"  Yes ;  I  will  tell  it  to  my  conscience.  She  should  know  all. 
It  was  a  small  thing,  but  it  makes  me  ashamed,  especially 
before  your  eyes." 

"  Therefore  I  ought  to  know  it ;  yes  ? " 

Her  manner  was  of  the  gentlest,  and  expressed  a  desire  to 
do  only  what  was  truest  for  him.  He  fully  appreciated  it ;  but 
it  was  no  easy  task  his  conscience  required  of  him.  However, 
with  a  new  imperious  instinct,  he  did  as  she  bade  him. 

"  When  I  first  met  your  aunt,"  he  began  hurriedly,  "  Louise 
had  left  me  only  long  enough  for  me  to  feel  my  loneliness  and 
bitter  disappointment,  and  yet  not  sufficient  time  had  elapsed 
for  me  to  have  become  accustomed  to  my  position.  Then  there 
was  a  something,  I  know  not  what,  about  Madame  Mabelle 
which  puzzled  me.  I  know  now  it  was  the  contrast  of  American 
and  French  customs,  which  I  did  not  appreciate  in  its  real 
extent.  Well,  I  took  her  at  last  as  my  confidante,  for  an 
imaginative  fancy  for  some  being  whom  I  wished  I  might  know 
and  love.  The  quality  of  exaggeration  which  you  are  aware 
she  possesses  made  this  seem  to  her  very  wicked.  She  knew  I 
was  married — she  knew  nothing  more.  She  took  the  matter 
far  more  seriously  than  I  ever  meant  it,  and  she  became  ex- 
tremely angry,  and  wrote  that  she  renounced  me  with  scorn 
for  ever.  I  do  not  pretend  to  defend  myself;  but  I  could  not 
bear  the  imputation  she  had  put  upon  me.  I  determined  to 
meet  her  and  eradicate  that  impression,  for  I  knew  it  was  only 
the  weakness  of  a  weak  moment.  Now,  I  blush  at  my  folly ;  I 
hate  it  as  much  as  you  can  do,  Esda.  It  was  like  talking  in 
my  sleep ;  I  did  not  know  what  I  said, — and  then  you  came  and 
wakened  me." 

"  I  am  glad  you  told  me,"  said  Bethesda,  when  he  had 
finished. 

"You  are  not  angry,  dear  Esda  1"  asked  Kene*,  leaning  for- 
ward to  look  full  in  her  face.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  with- 
out hesitation. 

"  No,  I  am  not  in  the  least  angry." 

"  And  you  do  not  blame  me — very  severely  ? " 

"  I  am  your  conscience,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile.     "  I 


166  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

blame  you  no  more  than  it."  After  a  moment's  pause  she 
added :  "  It  was  weak,  but  I  believe,  as  you  say,  it  was  only 
momentary.  You  asked  forgiveness  of  yourself,  as  well  as  of 
Aunt  Mabel.  In  the  future  it  can  be  forgotten." 

"  Yes,  we  will  not  think  of  it  more,"  he  answered,  with  a 
long  breath.  "I  am  relieved  that  you  know  it,  but  now  it  may 
fall  into  oblivion.  Give  me  your  hand  a  moment,  Esda." 

She  put  her  gloved  hand  in  his  with  her  usual  sweet  dignity, 
and  the  train  sped  on  several  miles  while  silence  joined  instead 
of  separating  them. 

Presently  Mrs.  Trescott  roused  herself,  and  then  came 
Calais,  and  the  blue,  foamy  Channel. 

"  To-morrow  a  letter  from  me  will  be  crossing  it,"  said  Rene", 
seeing  Bethesda  blanch. 

"  And  in  two  weeks  or  less  we  will  be  on  the  ocean,"  added 
Bethesda. 

With  her  all  this  was  but  the  prelude.  Where  the  Channel 
would  now  interfere  with  their  meeting  the  interminable  ocean 
would  divide  them  then.  But  she  strove  to  be  brave,  and  suc- 
ceeded. She  still  defied  that  hungry  beast  of  grief,  stealthily 
creeping  towards  her,  ready  to  spring. 

As  the  boat  cast  off  she  threw  back  her  head  proudly,  and 
looked  to  the  land  with  shining  eyes.  He  was  on  the  quay, 
and  she  on  the  vessel,  and  the  blue  waters  grew  wider  and  wider 
between  them,  who  perhaps  would  never  meet  again.  It  was 
only  the  beginning,  she  knew,  but  her  face  was  quiet,  even 
glad.  How  great  was  her  gain  !  Immeasurable;  imponderable. 
Grief  could  have  little  effect  upon  it. 

And  Rend  stood  watching  her,  so  beautiful,  so  graceful,  so 
brave,  until  he  longed  to  leap  to  her,  never  again  to  part.  Each 
throb  of  the  engine,  each  turn  of  the  wheel,  seemed  to  hit  and 
hurt  him  as  long  as  he  could  hear  or  see.  And,  as  he  turned 
away  at  last,  when  the  ship  had  become  a  speck,  and  the  smoke 
was  all  that  could  be  distinguished,  he  felt  a  serrement  du  coeur 
which  frightened  him. 

She  had  taken  not  only  herself  away,  which  meant  much, 
but  she  was  draining  his  veins  of  their  life-blood  by  her  absence. 
He  commenced  now  to  understand  that  this  unity  of  life  means 
pain  as  well  as  joy ;  that  to  disintegrate  a  double  spiritual  life 
is  like  disintegrating  a  physical  life,  which  produces  agony. 
She  had  suffered  it  all  a  thousand  times  in  anticipation ;  he, 


CHAP,  xviii.]  INADEQUACY.  167 

man-like,  did  not  know  what  it  meant  until  it  was  upon  him. 
But  he  had  to  endure  it  at  its  worst  now,  while  she  was  counting 
over  the  treasure  she  had  amassed,  and  finding  it  golden. 

In  London  Evra  and  Mrs.  Conover  were  at  the  station  to 
welcome  them,  and  when  they  reached  the  house  everything  was 
cosy  and  bright.  It  was  almost  like  a  home-coming,  so  warm 
were  the  motherly  cares  of  Mrs.  Conover  and  the  tender  solici- 
tudes of  Evra.  Indeed,  to  Bethesda  it  was  but  a  foretaste,  as 
each  incident  had  been  since  they  left  Paris. 

Mrs.  Trescott  was  lodged  in  a  stately  room  upstairs,  but 
Evra  carried  Bethesda  off  to  her  own  room,  and,  showing  a 
dainty  boudoir  beyond,  said  : 

"  Here,  darling,  you  are  to  share  these  with  me.  Now,  no 
denying,  sweet ;  you  would  break  my  heart.  I  know  you  like 
to  sleep  alone,  so  I  have  had  a  little  bed  put  in  the  dressing- 
room.  It  is  comfortable,  but  I  hope  sometimes  you  will  be 
persuaded  to  make  me  a  little  visit.  Now,  let  me  look  at  you ; 
I  have  not  had  a  chance  yet.  My  loveliest  of  women  !  I  did 
not  remember  you  were  so  beautiful,  and  yet  I  have  only  dreamed 
of  you  since  we  parted." 

She  caught  Bethesda  to  her  in  a  passionate  embrace.  The 
girl  submitted  at  first,  then  freed  herself  with  a  slight  shudder. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Evra  quickly. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  tired  ! " 

"  True,  dear ;  I  should  have  remembered.  May  I  help 
you  ?  You  will  let  me  be  maid  ?  I  wouldn't  lift  a  finger  for 
myself,  but  for  you  ! " 

Bethesda  yielded,  more  submissively  than  gladly.  She  felt 
a  miserable  sense  of  inadequacy  before  this  frank  and  craving 
love.  She  was  barren  of  the  power  of  giving,  because  she  was 
asked  too  much.  It  was,  as  it  had  always  been,  with  this 
difference :  now  her  capacity  for  passionate  devotion  had  been 
tested,  and  found  ample  ;  and  still  there  was  none — none  of  the 
kind  asked — for  Guinevere. 

The  supple  lady  served  Bethesda  with  swiftness  and  delight ; 
occasionally  a  little  awkward  in  her  humble  position,  but  only 
sufficiently  so  to  occasion  a  laugh  now  and  then,  which  made 
feeling  between  them  less  tense  and  healthier.  They  chatted 
incessantly  meanwhile ;  Evra  with  an  excited  pleasure  in  being 
able  to  talk  once  more  to  this  queen  of  her  heart, — Bethesda 
eagerly,  not  to  let  a  pause  come. 


168  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

Just  as  they  were  leaving  the  room  Bethesda,  fresh  as  a 
dewy  tea  rose  in  her  Parisian  toilette,  her  hair  showing  all  its 
character  beside  Evra's  golden  curls,  as  it  showed  its  sunniness 
beside  M.  d'Isten's  dark  head,  and  a  new  dignity  and  repose  in 
her  carriage,  Evra  turned  towards  her  and  seized  both  hands, 
scrutinising  her  an  instant. 

"  Lily,  there  is  something  new  come  to  you.  Don't  deny 
it.  You  are  not  the  same  as  you  were.  You  shall  tell  me  to- 
night," and  without  allowing  Bethesda  to  speak,  she  drew  the 
girl's  hand  through  her  arm  and  led  her  into  the  parlour. 

Soon  after  dinner  some  callers  were  announced,  much  to 
Evra's  vexation,  but  they  had  to  be  admitted,  and  the  evening 
passed  very  agreeably  to  Bethesda  in  music  and  conversation. 
When  the  last  guest  left  Mrs.  Trescott  bade  the  others  a  tired 
good-night,  warning  the  girls  not  to  talk  too  long. 

"  Leave  your  confidences  until  to-morrow,"  she  said ;  but 
when  were  girls  ever  known  to  follow  such  wise  advice  ? 

Bethesda  would  gladly  have  done  so ;  she  dreaded  the  next 
two  hours  inexpressibly.  Only  the  night  before  had  her  limbs 
been  weighted  by  that  faintness  which  a  woman  surmounts  with 
a  half-numbed  struggle,  such  as  an  opium-eater  feels  when  fear- 
ing to  succumb  to  his  fatal  drug.  So  much  had  happened 
since  then,  and  here  was  another  trial  to  endure. 

But  to-morrow  she  would  rest ;  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
and  to-morrow  !  How  many  days  were  before  her  !  Not  even 
one  had  passed  yet,  and  it  seemed  aeons  of  time ;  for  the  long 
years  to  come  weighed  upon  these  moments,  and  made  each 
seem  crushing  in  its  excessive  heaviness.  After  all,  perhaps  it 
was  as  well  that  she  should  be  actively  employed,  and  not  be 
left  to  her  thoughts. 

Presently  the  two  white  figures  were  seated  in  the  dim 
parlour,  face  to  face.  They  were  both  silent  for  a  while. 
Bethesda  was  waiting,  bracing  herself,  and  slowly  succumbing 
to  a  half -remorseful  pity.  Guinevere  was  feeling  intensely, 
sending  word  after  word  back  from  her  lips  to  seek  the  one 
that  should  not  offend  and  yet  should  lead  to  enlightenment. 

At  last,  with  a  sudden  impulse  that  shattered  the  impotence 
of  her  strivings,  she  laid  her  hand  over  Bethesda's,  and  broke 
out  in  a  suppressed  and  choking  voice  : 

"  Tell  me,  Lily,  what  has  changed  you  1 ;' 

"Am  I  changed?   .How,  dear?" 


CHAV.  XVTII.]  EENOUNCEMENT.  169 

She  was  no  longer  apprehensive.  She  might  reserve  a  part 
of  the  truth,  but  this  true  friend  should  know  a  part  also.  She 
felt  herself  the  stronger  of  the  two.  The  woman,  with  her 
myriad  resources,  had  replaced  the  inexperienced  girl. 

Meantime  Evra  answered  her  questions  passionately. 

"  How  ?  Why,  in  everything ;  in  yourself,  Beth.  You  are 
not  what  you  were.  You  turn  the  same  face  to  me,  but  I  can- 
not reach  you,  you  are  so  far  away.  You  are  unapproachable," 
her  voice  fell  with  a  hopeless  break  in  it ;  "I  shall  never  reach 
you.  Before,  there  was  a  chance ;  now,  there  is  none." 

Her  head  sank  on  the  arm  of  the  causeuse,  and  lay  there 
helpless  and  forlorn. 

Bethesda  did  not  attempt  to  answer  her  half-incoherent 
utterances,  but  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  golden  tangle  caress- 
ingly, and  kept  silence,  while  every  echo  of  the  impassioned 
words  died  away.  Then,  very  low,  she  said  : 

"  Dear,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  am  changed.  I  have  renounced 
definitely  all  thought  of  marrying." 

"  But  why  1 "  asked  Evra,  straining  her  eyes  to  read  the 
fair  face  so  near  her. 

"  I  have  decided  it  is  best ;  why,  I  cannot  say.  I  can  only 
tell  you  this  :  I  go  home  to  think  only  of  my  writing." 

"And  is  this  sadness — for  you  are  sad,  darling — because 
you  have  determined  this  1 " 

"  Perhaps." 

The  little  word  trembled  away  into  stillness  before  another 
was  said.  It  was  a  peculiar  faculty  that  Bethesda  possessed  of 
making  commonplace  expressions  contain  the  meaning  of  her 
own  nature.  Guinevere  keenly  appreciated  it. 

"  If  you  are  so  sorry,"  she  ventured  presently ;  but  Bethesda 
interrupted  her. 

"  It  is  done,  dear." 

"  So  you  are  to  be  a  vestal  virgin,"  resumed  Evra  after  a 
pause,  a  pause  that  said  much.  "  It  is  what  you  should  be, 
dear ;  you  were  made  for  it.  No  one  person  ought  to  mono- 
polise you." 

"  I  think  I  have  been  living  towards  this  from  my  cradle," 
said  Bethesda  in  a  far-away  tone. 

"We  are  only  closer  together  for  this,  pet,"  said  Evra, 
bending  forward  to  take  Beth  in  her  arms.  But  she  was 
prevented. 


170  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

"  I  am  farther  from  all  my  friends  for  this ;  farther  from 
all  I  have  heretofore  known.  My  work  will  unite  me  to  all 
those  who  work,  but  personally — 

"You  will  have  adoring  friends,  of  whom  I  shall  be  the 
first,"  interrupted  Evra.  "  We  are  alike  in  many  things ;  we 
must  give  one  another  mutual  aid ;  we  will  never  marry,  but 
we  will  always  be  friends,  and,  dear  knows,  I  need  one 
enough !" 

She  showed  her  relief  by  immediately  beginning  to  talk  of 
her  own  affairs. 

She  had  had  a  trying  time  in  Milan,  but  had  been  success- 
ful. She  had  met  the  man  to  whom  she  had  once  been  en- 
gaged, and  her  whole  nature  shrank  from  him  in  a  crawling 
repulsion.  He  had  done  everything  he  could  to  injure  her,  and 
finally  climaxed  his  insults  by  offering  her  again  his  hand, 
which  she  must  accept  as  the  price  of  his  desisting  from  an 
active  enmity.  She  had  of  course  refused  it  with  scorn,  and 
had  finally  triumphed  by  being  engaged  for  the  next  London 
season.  The  whole  affair  had  worn  upon  her,  however,  and 
given  her  a  fierce  contempt  for  human  nature,  which  made  her 
look  upon  Bethesda  Hamilton  as  the  one  pure,  true  soul  in  the 
universe. 

The  remainder  of  the  tete-cl-tete  passed  easily,  and  the 
sitting  broke  up  in  the  wee  hours,  both  relieved  if  weary.  But 
the  following  week  was  most  trying  to  Bethesda.  Evra  could 
not  endure  a  moment  out  of  her  sight.  Callers  were  snubbed, 
and  all  but  the  most  important  engagements  broken,  because 
she  was  determined  to  extract  every  possible  drop  of  companion- 
ship out  of  these  fast-fleeting  hours.  Bethesda  felt  an  uneasi- 
ness almost  amounting  to  pain  in  this  exigent  intercourse. 
How  was  she  to  conceal  her  feelings  from  so  suspicious  and  pas- 
sionate an  adorer  ?  For  her  whole  existence  inwardly  was  now 
absorbed  in  longing.  The  beast  did  not  spring  upon  her,  but 
numbed  her  at  times  into  a  deadly  anguish.  Misery,  too  deep 
and  black  to  be  accounted  for,  engulfed  her  in  its  resistless 
waves.  Resistance,  indeed,  was  impossible;  passivity  alone  was 
left. 

To  Evra  she  accounted  for  this  by  physical  fatigue,  and 
begged  her  not  to  worry  Mrs.  Trescott  with  it,  and  Mabel  sus- 
pected nothing  of  it.  They  saw  one  another  comparatively 
little,  as  she  still  had  some  shopping  to  do  peculiar  to  London, 


CHAP,  xviii.]  AN  UNTEUE  COMPASS.  171 

and,  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs,  fancied  Beth  led  an  easy,  en- 
joyable life,  while  the  hard  work  was  kept  from  her.  And 
Bethesda  called  on  her  pride  to  an  unlimited  extent  in  seeming 
happy  before  her  aunt.  She  would  have  considered  it  an  un- 
forgivable sin  to  let  a  suspicion  suggest  itself  that  the  new 
interest  in  her  life  was  other  than  unalloyed  delight.  More- 
over, this  curious  black  oppression  that  suffocated  her  at  times 
seemed  alien  and  causeless.  It  came  upon  her  without  reason, 
and  left  her  likewise.  To  lay  it  to  the  charge  of  her  rare 
happiness  would  have  been  the  extreme  of  illogical  foolish- 
ness in  her  opinion  ;  but  had  it  been  otherwise,  she  would  not 
have  wavered  an  instant  in  thinking  she  was  happy  beyond 
most. 

The  only  lightings  of  real  relief  that  came  to  these  alterna- 
tions of  smothered  struggle  and  smothering  despair  were  when 
Rend's  letters  arrived.  They  usually  came  before  Evra  was  up 
in  the  morning,  and  when  the  maid  appeared,  bearing  on  her 
salver  the  welcome  epistle,  what  a  reveille  sounded  in  Bethesda's 
ears  !  All  the  bat -like  horrors  hastened  away,  and  joyous 
daylight  reigned  supreme. 

"  When  I  look  at  the  sky  luminous  with  stars,  or  at  all 
that  God  has  made  the  symbol  of  His  omnipotence,  I  see 
nothing  that  shines  in  immensity  as  thou  dost  in  my  existence. 
Picture  to  thyself  a  man  as  he  prays  before  the  altar  absorbed 
in  devotion.  He  is  penetrated  by  God,  and  adores  Him.  In 
this  moment1 1  am  enwrapped  in  a  similar  enthusiasm.  I  adore 
God,  but  through  Bdthesda." 

Such  words  as  these  came  in  detached  pages  of  the  letters 
Beth  handed  to  her  aunt.  They  were  marked  "  Be'thesda,"  and 
thus  were  free  from  oversight.  From  the  girl  herself  half  their 
sweetness  was  stolen  by  this  concealment,  but  she  let  it  serve 
her  purpose.  She  laid  the  blame  all  on  society.  Love  was 
pure ;  their  love  was  pure.  Had  he  been  unmarried,  every  one 
would  have  considered  the  two  eminently  suited  to  one  another, 
as  her  aunt  often  declared ;  and  Bethesda  had  unconsciously 
fallen  into  the  position  of  considering  Rene'  d'Isten  virtually 
unmarried.  Only  superficially  did  society  hold  him  to  Louise. 
Interiorly  society  could  not  bind  him,  and  here  he  could  give  him- 
self to  her,  as  he  did  and  should.  But  with  the  rights  of  Louise 
Bethesda  had  no  thought  of  interfering.  Just  in  so  far  as  she 
recognised  them  she  respected  them.  She  and  Rene'  would 


172  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

take  what  remained,  and  what  made  her  great  happiness ;  no 
matter  what  tristesse  might  lurk  beneath,  she  was  profoundly 
grateful.  For  there  was  in  the  deepest  earnestness  of  Beth- 
esda's  nature  a  devotion  which  made  all  suffering  in  its  service 
insignificant.  Those  who,  even  through  martyrdom,  gained  the 
heights  of  self-sacrifice  in  some  great  cause,  she  looked  upon 
with  reverence  as  enviable  beings. 

Mabel  Trescott,  on  the  other  hand,  was  very  willing  to  lead 
an  easy  life  if  fate  would  let  her.  The  ecstasies  of  self-abnega- 
tion, the  delight  of  self-development  at  any  cost,  did  not  appeal 
to  her  so  much  as  comfort  and  quiet  every-day  living. 

Could  there  have  been  a  greater  contrast  ?  One  straining 
after  the  high,  far  stars  of  absolute  truth  and  love,  regardless 
of  her  footing;  the  other  wrapped,  Cleopatra -like,  in  the 
Oriental  folds  of  a  luxurious  ease,  which  in  spite  of  desires 
could  not  give  her  content.  And  it  seemed  the  very  irony  of 
fate  that  the  one  to  swerve  from  rectitude  of  life  was  she  who 
had  its  highest  ideals  and  strived  with  earnest  purpose  to 
embody  them. 

Meanwhile  some  curious  renewals  of  old  experiences  linked 
the  present  to  the  past. 

One  day  a  box  came  to  Miss  Hamilton  from  her  bankers. 
It  was  some  five  feet  square,  and  marked  from  Italy.  Interest 
was  high  as  the  four  gathered  round  it,  and  presently  when  it 
was  discovered  to  be  a  picture,  frame  and  all,  Mrs.  Conover 
remarked : 

"  My  dear,  I  believe  it  is  a  parting  gift  from  Signor  Straora." 

The  last  wrappers  were  undone,  and  the  canvas  was  lifted 
out.  Bethesda  flushed  as  she  saw  it,  and  was  silent ;  but  the 
others  compensated  by  their  exclamations. 

It  was  a  two-thirds  portrait  of  Bethesda ;  and  yet  it  was 
not  alone  a  portrait  but  a  type.  The  artist  seemed  to  have 
seized  the  spirit  of  past  centuries,  whose  meaning  is  constantly 
recurring  in  the  individual  development  of  humanity.  There 
was  a  suggestion  of  the  most  ancient  of  civilisations  in  the 
straight  lines  of  the  chair  in  which  the  figure  was  seated ;  the 
white  robe,  disclosing  faultless  neck  and  arms,  had  a  broidered 
zone  around  the  waist  which  Isis  might  have  worn ;  and  the 
hair  was  so  caught  that  it  seemed  precisely  the  girl's  way  of 
arranging  it  at  the  same  time  that  it  recalled  something  beyond 
and  before  the  classic. 


CHAP,  xviii.]  KNOW  THYSELF.  173 

There  was  no  denying  that  it  was  an  admirable  picture. 
Evra  went  into  raptures  over  it ;  Mrs.  Trescott  congratulated 
herself  that  she  had  forwarded  its  accomplishment,  and  even 
Bethesda  recognised  herself  and  something  seons  before  herself 
in  it.  The  eyes,  which  met  the  spectators'  fully,  yet  inscrut- 
ably, fascinated  her.  She  found  herself  constantly  trying  to 
elucidate  their  character. 

They  were  yearning,  and  mysterious,  and  haunting  in  a 
certain  undefined  pathos.  She  thought  if  Signor  Straora  should 
see  her  now  he  would  find  that  changed ;  her  yearning  satisfied, 
her  mystery  revealed.  Yet,  was  it  1  Was  there  not  something 
deeper  and  larger  than  the  most  complete  individual  life  could 
satisfy  1  The  connection  of  all  humanity  with  this  one  human 
soul  made  her  see  herself  greater  and  smaller  than  ever  before. 
The  marriage  of  minds  was  eternal  as  the  ages  and  the  spirit 
which  vivified  them ;  but  could  any  one  person  absolutely 
satisfy  another  ?  She  was  an  atom,  and  yet  she  was  an  integral 
part  of  her  race,  which  are  "as  gods;"  could,  then,  another 
atom  fill  her  whole  being  ? 

Here  she  pushed  thought  away,  as  Uze  majeste.  She  would 
not  listen  to  treason,  she  asseverated,  but  her  mind  inevitably 
returned  to  the  same  idea. 

No  one  thing  could  have  taken  the  teacher's  part  in  this 
dim  time  so  effectively  as  this  inanimate  canvas ;  and  Signor 
Straora,  in  his  loneliness,  and  the  aching  void  which  had  been 
left  anew  by  the  despatch  of  this  semblance  of  his  won- 
drous maiden,  would  have  been  content  had  he  seen  Bethesda 
in  some  solitary  hour,  leaning  on  the  table  before  his  painting, 
and  trying  to  find  her  way,  with  its  help,  into  the  depths  of 
self. 

No  word  came  from  the  sender  of  this  precious  gift,  but 
Bethesda  and  Mrs.  Trescott  both  wrote  him.  Bethesda's  letter 
was  a  curious  betrayal  of  the  intimacy  the  picture  had  estab- 
lished between  the  artist  and  his  model : — 

"  I  have  always  wished,"  she  wrote,  "  that  I  could  have  an 
objective  ideal  towards  which  I  could  live,  and  have  sometimes 
wondered  if  a  portrait  depicting  my  best  qualities  in  their  full 
development  would  not  inspire  me  to  improvement.  You  have 
seized  the  very  kernel  of  my  thought,  but  have  presented  it  in 
a  new  way.  You  have  given  me  myself,  my  possibilities,  as  a 


174  BETHESDA.  [PAUT  i. 

problem  to  be  solved.  I  shall  not  be  content  until  I  have 
explained  the  mysteries  you  indicate.  The  Sphinx  must  speak, 
if  but  a  whisper  in  my  ear ;  and  then  we  shall  see  if  you  can 
find  that  answer  1 " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  Then  my  soul  went  out  to  him.  .  .  .  And  where  there  had  been 
selfish  pride  before,  was  written  Rama  ;  and  where  there  had  been  hope, 
or  joy,  or  beauty,  was  written  Rama  ;  and  where  there  had  been  dreams 
of  unknown  bliss,  was  written  Rama  ;  and  where  there  had  been  God  and 
heaven,  was  written  Rama." — Iliad  of  the  East. 

"  There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death  more  sharp  than  this  is." 

Cymheline. 

ONE  morning,  two  days  before  Mrs.  Trescott  and  Bethesda 
expected  to  leave  London,  a  letter  came  from  Rend  to  Bethesda. 
She  had  incidentally  mentioned  in  one  of  her  letters  that  they 
were  going  to  hear  Patti  that  evening,  and  he  now  declared 
that  this  (?)  attraction  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  stay  longer 
in  Paris,  and  that  he  would  arrive  by  the  night  boat,  and 
appear  in  the  box  as  a  surprise  to  Madame  Mabelle ;  but  he 
could  not  keep  it  as  a  surprise  for  one  who  must  know  all  his 
actions  and  divine  every  thought. 

This  letter  was  handed  Bethesda  when  she  was  just  awake, 
and  she  felt  her  brain  whirl  as  she  thought  he  was  already  in 
the  city !  To-night  I  shall  see  him  !  To-night !  her  heart 
cried. 

Then  she  bethought  herself.  He  must  not  be  allowed  to 
stay  in  the  city  all  day  and  they  not  meet,  no  indeed !  He 
had  mentioned  the  hotel  where  he  would  stop,  and  she  would 
take  the  responsibility  of  asking  him  to  breakfast.  It  was  a 
very  irregular  meal,  which  each  one  generally  took  at  a  different 
time ;  she  usually  alone.  Perhaps  this  morning  she  would  not 
be  alone  ! 

After  sending  her  message  she  flitted  around  like  a  hum- 
ming-bird. Every  fear  and  vestige  of  gloom  had  fled.  The 
vague  stirrings  towards  a  new  life  were  charmed  into  slumber 
by  this  renewal  of  loved  bonds.  She  had  half  expected  some 
such  sudden  decision  on  Rent's  part.  In  his  place  she  would 
have  done  the  same,  and  now  her  secret  impatience  gave 


CHAP.  XIX.]  JOY.  175 

colour  to  her  cheeks,  and  winged  her  footsteps,  as  if  by  moving 
quickly  even  around  the  house  she  could  hasten  towards  him. 

When  she  went  into  the  parlour  she  ran  up  to  her  portrait 
and  fluttered  the  letter  before  its  insistent  eyes.  "  Now,  now 
you  will  be  satisfied ! "  she  exclaimed. 

But,  as  she  waited,  she  found  herself  too  often  confronted 
by  that  questioning  glance  which  finally  turned  into  a  reproach, 
so  that  at  last  she  caught  up  a  shawl,  and  threw  it  over  the  face. 

"  There  ! "  she  exclaimed  aloud,  and  tried  to  forget  it. 

The  clock  must  surely  be  wrong ;  she  had  said  nine,  and  it 
was  now  only  a  quarter  after  eight.  No,  her  own  snail-like 
watch  agreed  with  it.  Now  time  was  so  long,  and  how  swift 
it  would  fly  if  he  were  there  !  Why  couldn't  the  long  moments 
be  given  then,  and  the  short  ones  now  1 

She  stopped  her  impatient  steps  before  the  mirror  ;  did  she 
really  look  like  that  haunting  picture  ?  A  slender  figure,  all  in 
white,  with  a  crimson  rose  against  the  throat ;  a  head  exult- 
antly carried ;  a  fair  face,  with  dark  eyes  shining  joyously,  was 
what  she  saw.  She  could  not  help  smiling  as  she  tucked  back 
a  wilful  lock  of  hair.  It  surely  was  more  golden  than  usual 
to-day,  because  it  knew  he  liked  it  so. 

Hark  !  a  carriage  !  And  stopping  here  !  She  rushed  to- 
wards the  door  to  run  and  meet  him,  but  the  thought  of  the 
servants  deterred  her.  She  forced  herself  to  sit  down  and 
open  a  book.  The  letters  were  gigantic,  and  grew  dark  and 
light  before  her  eyes. 

She  rose  as  he  came  in,  but  she  could  hardly  stand ;  and, 
as  soon  as  the  door  closed,  he  sprang  forward,  and  bowed  before 
her,  and  clasped  and  kissed  the  little  hands  nestling  in  his. 

Then  he  led  her  to  a  sofa,  and  they  sat  down  side  by  side. 
Before  long — in  a  moment,  it  seemed — the  servant  returned  to 
announce  breakfast.  Bethesda,  now  restored  to  quick  thought- 
fulness,  sent  the  maid  to  see  if  Mrs.  Conover  was  up,  and  sped 
herself  to  Mrs.  Trescott. 

"  Auntie  !  auntie  ! "  she  cried,  and,  in  her  first  wakening, 
Mabel  guessed  Rene'  had  come. 

"You  dazzle  me  like  a  sunbeam,  child.  Run  down,  and 
take  breakfast.  Don't  wait  for  me.  You  must  both  be 
hungry,"  she  said,  when  told  of  the  surprise. 

"  Hungry ! "  exclaimed  Beth,  but  she  was  off  with  childlike 
impetuosity. 


176  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

Rend  found  her,  in  this  sweet  excitement,  simply  entrancing. 
The  ordinary  English  breakfast  was  a  feast  for  gods  waited 
upon  by  her.  The  little  hands  fluttered  among  the  china  and 
silver  like  self-important  birds,  and  the  coffee  that  ensued  was 
nectar. 

A  dozen  times  he  rose  when  the  waiter  was  gone  on  the 
pretext  of  passing  her  things,  just  to  have  her  throw  back  her 
head  and  look  up  at  him,  with  the  clear,  joyous,  loving  soul 
in  her  eyes.  The  morrow's  parting  was  forgotten  in  to-day's 
reunion. 

When  they  finished  Bethesda  excused  herself  to  call 
Guinevere ;  her  daily  duty,  as  she  explained,  "  and  I  must  not 
neglect  it,  for  she  is  dreadfully  jealous." 

"  And  what  am  1 1 "  asked  Rend,  smiling. 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  be  jealous  of  me,"  she  replied 
simply.  As  he  opened  the  door  for  her  he  bowed  reverently. 
No ;  one  who  held  her  heart  had  no  cause  to  be  jealous. 

When  Bethesda  returned  to  the  parlour  Mrs.  Trescott  was 
with  Rend  She  had  thrown  off  the  shawl  from  Bethesda's 
portrait,  and  Rend  was  studying  it  keenly. 

"  Well  1 "  said  Bethesda,  somewhat  nervously. 

"  It  is  not — Esda,"  he  said,  in  a  rather  sharp  tone,  which 
softened  curiously  in  pronouncing  her  name. 

"  No,  it  is  not  like  me  now,  is  it  ? "  she  cried. 

The  strange,  haunting,  rebuking  eyes  checked  the  warm 
blood  in  her  veins.  She  looked  appealingly  at  Rend,  and  he 
gave  her  a  warm,  reassuring  gaze. 

"  I  have  not  seen  you  so — of  late.  It  is  beautiful,  but  too 
solemn  for  one  who  is  happy.  It  is  not  our  sunny  Bdthesda, 
and  we  will  hide  it  away  again." 

The  girl  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  just  then  Mrs.  Conover  came 
in  and  welcomed  M.  d'Isten  cordially.  Evra  soon  joined  them 
also,  but  her  courteous  phrases  were  a  little  cool.  She  at  once 
proceeded  to  tuck  Bethesda  under  her  arm  with  a  claiming 
authority,  and  Monsieur  d'Isten  devoted  himself  discreetly  to 
Mrs.  Trescott. 

The  ladies  were  to  leave  on  Wednesday  afternoon  to  catch 
the  steamer,  which  sailed  on  Thursday  too  early  for  the  morning 
train.  M.  d'Isten  asserted  he  should  not  leave  them  until  the 
last  minute  now.  They  pressed  the  Conovers  to  accompany  them 
also,  part  of  the  way  at  least,  but  Mrs.  Conover  took  Bethesda 


CHAP,  xix.]  A  HALF-LOAF.  177 

aside,  and  represented  to  her  how  important  it  was  that  Evra 
should  be  in  the  city,  until  the  plan  was  reluctantly  relin- 
quished. 

Guinevere  during  these  last  days  was  silently  unhappy. 
She  felt  hurt,  thrown  back  upon  herself,  and  bitterly  disap- 
pointed in  this  longed-for  visit.  She  could  not  have  told  the 
reason  for  this,  and  when  Bethesda  came  with  the  little  caresses 
that  would  have  been  glad  to  comfort  and  please  her,  Evra 
would  stifle  what  she  then  termed  her  miserable  suspicions,  and 
try  to  satisfy  her  hunger  on  this  meagre  food. 

The  evening  before  their  departure  the  party  broke  up 
late,  and  when  the  others  had  retired  Bethesda  and  Guinevere 
lingered  together,  talking  not  altogether  easily  for  a  while. 
At  last  Evra  rose  abruptly,  and  bringing  a  finely -carved  box 
unlocked  it,  and  showed  Bethesda  its  contents — her  own  letters. 

"  These  are  what  I  have  read  and  re-read,  night  after 
night,  child,"  she  said,  with  a  mournful  accent,  "even  since 
you  have  been  here." 

Bethesda  looked  at  her,  dazed  and  remorseful.  If  they 
only  had  let  her  speak,  at  least  of  the  literary  compact,  she 
might  perhaps  have  made  the  change  better  understood. 
Neither  Kene'  nor  Mabel  had  approved,  however,  and  she 
yielded.  Now  she  wished  she  had  not,  but  the  affair  told 
at  this  juncture  would  take  on  undue  proportions,  or  would  tell 
more  than  she  could  tell,  for  her  secrets  were  entwined  with 
another's,  and  she  must  guard  his  honour  even  more  carefully 
than  her  own. 

So  she  said  nothing.  In  a  moment  the  cover  fell,  and 
Guinevere  turned  the  key,  and  moved  to  go. 

Bethesda  sprang  after  her.  She  could  not  endure  this 
silence.  She  laid  her  hands  on  the  tall  shoulders  before  her 
and  lifted  her  face  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  chandelier. 

"  Evra,"  she  said,  "do  you  trust  me  ?" 

"  Next  to  God,"  was  the  solemn  reply. 

"  Then  listen,"  spoke  Bethesda  breathlessly.  "  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  has  changed  me ;  that  I  am  changed  you  quickly 
discovered,  but  that  is  something  of  which  I  dare  not  speak. 
I  ask  you  to  rest  in  this  :  I  am  as  true  to  you  as  I  ever  was ; 
I  am  no  more  unworthy  your  love  than  I  always  have  been. 
Love  me,  Evra,  dear,  and  don't  be  afraid  that  there  is  not  a 
large,  warm  place  in  my  heart  for  you,  whatever  its  changes." 

N 


178  BETHESDA.  [PAET  I. 

Her  eyes  were  deep,  and  shining  with  a  deeper  purpose. 
Evra's  were  swimming  in  tears. 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  she  said,  winding  her  arms  around  the 
girl.  "I  believe  you  and  love  you;  how  much,  God  only 
knows." 

The  hours  came  in  swift  succession.  Hardly  had  the  good- 
nights  been  said,  it  seemed,  than  the  good-mornings  were  to 
say.  The  two  girls  went  into  the  parlour  the  next  morning 
arm-in-arm.  There  was  a  closer  feeling  between  them  than  at 
any  time  since  they  had  parted  in  Florence,  but  they  were  both 
subdued.  Guinevere  was  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  the  long 
separation  to  come,  and  Bethesda  was  insensibly  allowing  the 
.undercurrent  of  her  life,  during  this  fortnight,  to  come  to  the 
light  of  recognition.  All  this  was  only  the  overture — the  over- 
ture where  the  wailing  sorrow  to  come  is  foretold,  and  the  mind 
prepared  for  a  tragedy. 

Alas,  only  until  to-morrow  ! 

As  they  waited  for  the  train  in  the  station  Guinevere  held 
her  Lily  with  a  painful  grasp ;  and  when  they  were  off  the  last 
thing  Bethesda  saw  was  a  pale  face  set  in  golden  curls,  whose 
features  were  drawn  with  pain.  It  haunted  her  for  long,  with 
a  dim  sense  of  being  unworthy  of  such  affection.  But  the  next 
farewell  ? 

When  they  reached  Liverpool  they  found  Marcot,  who  had 
been  engaged  by  the  ladies  for  their  American  home,  had 
secured  them  pleasant  roonre,  and  M.  d'Isten  outdid  himself  in 
surrounding  the  ladies  with  delicate  attentions.  The  fact  that 
he  had  them  once  more  to  himself  was  evidently  satisfactory 
to  him. 

To  Bethesda,  too,  it  was  a  rest,  and  when  presently  Rene" 
proposed  reading  aloud  to  them,  nothing  could  seem  to  have 
been  more  happily  chosen,  as  it  suited  the  fatigued  indolence 
of  Mrs.  Trescott  as  well  as  Bethesda. 

The  piece  he  had  selected  was  a  eulogy  of  women ; 
sincere  and  ardently  poetical,  and  he  read  it  with  fervour. 
Instances  of  devotion  were  gathered  from  every  land,  and  as 
they  were  told  Bethesda  felt  the  power  to  do  each  one.  Still  she 
felt  strangely  within  herself  the  capacity  of  being  more  utterly 
filled.  She  wished  the  thought  of  Rene'  to  fill  every  recess, 
each  small  and  large  space  in  her  soul,  as  air  would  any  vacancy, 
and  she  was  perplexed  that  her  love  did  not  make  it  so. 


CHAP,  xix.]  DEATH  A  BOON.  179 

But  of  one  thing  she  was  sure ;  she  was  inseparably  bound 
to  him,  and  through  life  and  eternity  nothing  but  unworthiness 
could  separate  them. 

He  looked  up  from  his  book  as  she  thought  this,  and  found 
Bethesda's  eyes  shining  on  him  with  a  glory  of  surrender.  She 
had  risen  in  the  last  few  moments,  and  now  stood  by  the 
mantel,  leaning  upon  it.  As  she  met  his  eyes  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  would  have  thrown  himself  at  hers,  had  they  been 
alone.  As  it  was  he  turned  away  abruptly  to  regain  his 
startled  self-control. 

Why  should  she  feel  differently  to  him  to-night  than  ever 
before?  he  asked  himself.  Why  should  she  now,  just  now, 
when  they  were  about  to  part,  melt  the  incomparable  pearls  of 
her  nature  in  one  peerless  draught,  and  offer  it  to  him  with  such 
imperial  grace  ? 

Why,  indeed,  except  just  because  they  were  about  to  part, 
and  the  woman's  heart  cried  passionately : 

"  These  are  the  last  moments ;  we  may  never  see  each  other 
more.  Let  our  spirits  meet  now  while  they  may." 

In  her  rapture,  in  her  almost  agonised  rapture,  she  could 
have  rejoiced  had  there  been  some  supreme  way  in  which  she 
could  prove  her  love  and  so  die.  Shrink  from  what  other 
women  have  done  ?  Rather,  their  acts  were  miserably  petty ; 
yet  she  envied  them !  They  could  at  least  prove  their  love 
to  all  the  world,  but  she  must  seal  her  lips,  and  hide  what 
she  would  have  been  proud  to  proclaim  to  every  creature. 
And  their  eyes  meeting,  both  realised  at  this  moment  that 
death  would  be  the  dearest  boon  of  life. 

They  went  on  board  early  the  next  day,  and  as  Rend 
felt  the  little  quiver  of  Esda's  hand  he  said  cheerily  : 

"  The  next  time  I  am  on  an  ocean  steamer  will  be  coming 
to  you.  You  can  rest  in  my  coming." 

And  Esda  clung  closer  to  his  arm,  resting  on  the  present, 
in  any  case,  whatever  she  might  do  on  the  future. 

The  two  were  constantly  together ;  they  promenaded  the 
deck  arm-in-arm,  and  talked  and  laughed  quite  as  if  a  week  were 
still  before  them,  only  in  Bethesda's  mind  there  was  that  half- 
insane,  half-numbed  sense  that  soon  she  would  awake  with  the 
grip  of  a  monster  agony  at  her  heart.  She  said  nothing  of  it, 
however,  and  her  conversation  and  appearance  were  as  bright 
and  sunny  as  the  rippling  abysses  of  the  sea. 


180  BETHESDA.  [PART  i. 

Rene"  did  not  surmise  what  she  felt,  for  he  felt  nothing  of 
the  kind.  Last  night's  anguish  had  passed  for  him,  and  the 
future,  if  not  all  sunshine,  had  never  looked  so  surely  happy  to 
him  as  now.  He  could  look  forward  to  tens  and  twenties  of 
years,  and  see  that  same  light  shining  on  his  existence  still, 
that  same  immutable  tenderness  permeating  his  being,  and 
rendering  everything  it  touched  beautiful  and  sweet.  He  was 
a  man  of  strong  habits,  and  the  wearisomeness  of  continuity 
was  never  to  be  feared  with  him  ;  rather,  the  longer  he  pos- 
sessed a  thing  the  more  attached  he  became  to  it.  And  there 
was  a  rarity  about  Be"thesda  Hamilton  which  made  him  well 
aware  he  should  never  find  her  equal ;  indeed,  had  he  not 
been  seeking  her  in  vain  for  thirty  years'?  He  had  never 
spoken  a  truer  word  than  when  he  said  she  completed  his 
existence. 

This  completeness,  too,  was  not  disturbed  by  what  he 
considered  the  inevitable  fate  of  their  walking  their  paths 
separately,  divided  even  by  the  sea.  For  he  was  not  a  dis- 
honourable man.  Brought  up  in  the  surroundings  and  traditions 
of  his  country,  such  a  passionate  amitie  as  this  had  become  was, 
to  his  conscience,  no  sin.  It  was  more  than  excusable,  it  was 
justifiable,  even  praiseworthy.  He  occupied  precisely  the  same 
position  to  his  wife  that  he  had  done  for  years,  and  one  she 
had  deliberately  chosen  ;  he  wronged  no  one.  Be'thesda  was 
entirely  free ;  he  claimed  nothing  from  her.  What  she  gave  he 
accepted  as  the  bounty  of  a  generous  heart ;  what  he  gave  to 
her  was,  as  she  had  told  him,  and  he  was  glad  to  believe,  her 
greatest  joy. 

That  she  should  not  marry  could  not,  with  his  experience, 
seem  any  great  sacrifice,  and  she  would  not  be  lonely  with  her 
sister,  her  writing,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  was  always 
devoted  to  her.  The  whole  matter  seemed  to  him  inalienably 
settled ;  it  could  not  be  altered  now ;  no  one  could  interfere. 
They  had  agreed  together  that  they  should  not  take  any  one's 
word  but  each  other's  in  regard  to  their  relations,  and  thus  all 
misunderstandings  were  definitely  precluded. 

They  were  so  engrossed  with  one  another  that  they  noticed 
no  one  on  board,  although  most  of  the  accumulating  six  hundred 
souls  who  weighted  the  vessel  had  seen  and  commented  on 
them.  No  wonder  that  both  thought  Mrs.  Trescott  guessed 
their  open  secret  when  outsiders  saw  through  it  at  a  glance. 


CHAP,  xix.]  A  HARD  FAKEWELL.  181 

No  wonder,  either,  that  they  thought  she  did  not  disapprove 
when  she  left  them  alone  as  much  as  possible,  while  appearing 
as  affectionate  to  both  as  she  had  ever  been. 

Rene'  was,  perhaps,  more  guarded  than  Bethesda,  but  only 
because  he  thought  Madame  Mabelle  might  not  care  to  ac- 
knowledge what  she  did  not  mind  countenancing  indirectly, — 
and  then  he  understood  her  to  think  also,  that  time  and  absence 
would  change  all  this,  and  that  she  was  willing  to  rest  in  this 
security. 

He  was,  too.  He  smiled  to  think  how  harmless  these 
enemies  of  mankind  would  be  to  him  and  Esda. 

A  shrill  whistle  blew.  Rene',  with  Bethesda  clinging  closer 
and  closer  to  his  arm,  went  to  inquire  when  the  fatal  moment 
would  arrive. 

"  All  friends  leave  immediately !  Ship  sails  in  five  minutes," 
answered  the  officer. 

They  hastened  to  the  lower  deck,  and  Rend  kissed  Mrs. 
Trescott's  gloved  hands  without  a  word.  Then  he  caught 
Bethesda's,  from  which  she  had  drawn  the  glove,  and  put  the 
soft  palm  over  lips  and  eyes.  Only  an  instant,  but  during  it 
they  both  blanched  terribly.  With  one  foot  on  the  gangway, 
and  still  holding  her  hand  in  his  unbreakable  clasp,  he  waited 
until  the  last  person  had  left.  Then  he  sprang  to  the  little 
deck  below,  and  the  two  stood  gazing  at  one  another  with  dry 
eyes,  while  the  distance  widened  slowly,  implacably,  then 
swifter  and  swifter,  until  they  were  lost  to  sight. 


PART  IL 


'  Yet  more,  life's  music  holdeth  more  than  these,  .  . 
There  is  a  golden  chord  whose  harmonies 
Have  deeper  echoes  ;  .  .  . 
Our  lips  will  smile,  although  our  eyes  are  wet, 
Till  we  life's  earnest  mystery  have  solved  ; 
And  then,  weak  heart,  .   .  . 

Know  that  the  soul  which  breathes  immortal  breath, 
Stronger  than  joy,  stronger  than  grief,  must  be, 
And  trample  both,  to  reach,  0  God,  to  Thee  !  " 

ISA  BLAGDEN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"To  train  people  to  be  men  by  keeping  them  children,  to  train  people 
to  be  free  except  by  making  them  free,  by  letting  them  bear  the  conse- 
quences of  their  sins  and  mistakes,  is  seen  to  be  more  and  more  of  an 
impossibility.  What  does  the  whole  history  of  the  world  mean,  but  that 
it  is  impossible, — even  to  God?" 

OF  all  outward  experiences,  there  is  nothing  like  a  sea-voyage 
to  wrench  one  from  old  associations  and  habits  of  life.  The 
long  silence  of  every  friend ;  the  weary,  dreary  passage,  where 
one  is  conscious  that  each  turn  of  the  screw  takes  one  further 
from  what  one  loves,  and  fastens  the  distance  with  unevadible 
decision, — this  is  a  close  enough  symbol  of  death  ;  and  another 
land,  bearing  a  general  similarity  to  the  past,  yet  with  every 
part  changed,  is  recognisable  as  our  idea  of  what  a  new  life 
may  be. 

Bethesda  found  this  true  as  she  went  up  on  deck,  just  at 
dawn,  the  morning  they  reached  New  York.  A  still,  calm 
gloom  environed  the  ship,  allowing  faint  outlines  of  the  low 
hills  to  be  seen.  They  had  cast  anchor,  and  were  waiting  for 
daylight  to  steam  into  dock.  The  cessation  of  sound  and 
movement  had  given  her  a  dizzy  sensation,  after  the  long  rock- 
ing and  straining  of  the  vessel,  and  she  had  come  upstairs  to 
see  if  the  fresh  air  would  not  dissipate  it.  What  a  voyage  it 
had  been  !  Not  stormy  in  the  elements ;  the  trip  had,  on  the 
contrary,  been  a  very  calm  and  swift  one ;  but  what  a  battle- 
field of  murderous  spiritual  conflict  this  ship  represented !  In 
every  corner  she  saw  the  face  of  some  dead  hope,  the  ghost  of 
some  ghastly  agony. 

When  she  had  left  Europe,  and  watched  Renews  figure  grow 
less  and  less  as  distance  widened  between  them,  she  had  at 
least  felt  secure  of  a  mental  unity  which  abolished  space. 
They  were  to  write  frequently,  and  thus  would  be  still  held 


186  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

together  by  a  palpable  means  of  communication.  But  now, 
alas !  she  knew  the  letter  below,  ready  to  be  mailed,  was  the 
last  she  would  write  him  for  six  months ;  perhaps  the  last  open- 
hearted  one  she  would  ever  write  him. 

This  bitter  change  had  been  brought  about  ostensibly  by 
Mrs.  Trescott.  She  had  only  waited  for  Beth  to  rouse  herself 
from  what  was  more  a  swoon  than  a  slumber  into  which  she 
had  fallen  on  the  day  they  left  England,  to  accuse  her  of  deceit 
in  concealing  from  her  trusting  aunt  her  own  knowledge  that 
she  loved  Rene'  d'Isten. 

The  fact  that  both  the  man  and  woman  knew  it  had 
flashed  upon  Mabel  during  that  last,  hard  good-bye,  and  she 
had  been  thinking  of  it,  with  a  cumulative  rancour,  while 
Bethesda  lay  for  hours  wan  and  half  lifeless  before  her. 

She  had  failed  in  action,  she  had  trusted  too  much,  she 
told  herself ;  she  would  not  so  fail  or  trust  again.  This  affair 
must  be  seen  in  its  true  light  at  all  hazards.  She  would  use 
her  authority  as  a  knife,  if  need  were.  "  If  thine  eye  offend 
thee,  pluck  it  out,"  was  one  of  her  favourite  pieces  of  advice. 
She  did  not  notice  that  the  Bible  command  is  couched  in  such 
language  that  it  makes  the  plucking  out  of  an  offending  eye  a 
matter  of  self-subjection,  of  free-will,  not  of  compulsion.  She 
thought  it  emphatically  her  duty  to  pluck  out  her  niece's  organ 
of  sight,  so  dimmed  and  unreliable  was  it,  and  then  the  girl 
might  lend  herself  more  docilely  to  her  aunt's  guidance,  which 
was  the  only  road  to  salvation  out  of  this  swamp  of  evil  into 
which  Beth  had  sunk. 

"  Where  did  this  begin  ?"  she  had  broken  out  abruptly  one 
day.  "In  London?  In  Paris?  Have  you  deceived  me  for 
weeks,  and  if  so,  how  far  ?  Oh,  Beth  !  am  I  awake,  or  in  a 
nightmare,  that  I  can  say  such  things  and  you  not  deny  them  1 
Do  you  know  that  he  is  married,  married,  I  say,  and  do  you 
know  nothing  of  the  world  ?  Heavens,  assure  me  of  something, 
Beth,  or  I  shall  go  mad  !" 

"  Of  what  do  you  accuse  me  1 "  said  Bethesda.  Her  figure 
was  drawn  to  its  full  height,  and  her  brows  were  a  single  tense 
line  above  eyes  whose  expression  made  even  Mabel  Trescott 
speechless. 

"  Of  nothing,  nothing,"  she  said  at  last  brokenly.  "  I  only 
ask  you,  what  am  I  to  believe  1" 

Bethesda  felt  a  sentiment  of  pity  and  self-rebuke  begin  to 


CHAP,  i.]  FKANKNESS  AT  LAST.  187 

dilute  her  indignation.  She  remained  silent  a  few  moments, 
thinking  fast.  Rend  and  she  had  agreed  together  that  if  con- 
cealment was  not  wrong,  deception  was,  and  now  she  ought  no 
longer  to  remain  silent.  Since  Mrs.  Trescott  had  gone  so  far 
beyond  the  truth,  Bethesda  decided  that  it  was  best  for  all 
concerned  that  she  should  be  frank. 

She  was  so ;  completely  as  far  as  facts  were  concerned,  and 
there  was  a  sense  of  freedom  and  upright  defiance  in  speak- 
ing openly  of  what  it  had  been  a  trial  to  her  to  conceal,  even 
passively.  She  had  consented  to  keep  silent  from  motives  of 
expediency  alone,  not  from  any  sense  of  shame  or  guilt.  She 
told  her  aunt,  indeed,  that  she  would  be  proud  to  have  the 
angels  in  heaven  look  at  her  connection  with  Rend,  and  felt 
assured  they  would  not  disapprove.  It  was  only  the  pettiness 
and  earthiness  of  this  world  which  had  made  them  see  fit  not 
to  proclaim  it  on  the  house-tops,  if  need  were. 

Mrs.  Trescott  listened  sombrely.  She  knew  Beth  was 
speaking  the  truth.  She  saw  she  was  ignorant  as  to  the  wrong 
of  this,  that  her  conscience  was  perverted ;  but  her  darling  was 
still  innocent  and  pure.  It  was  an  error,  a  misapprehension, 
into  which  she  had  been  unconsciously  led,  perhaps  by  an  uncon- 
scious hand.  The  lofty  tone  in  which  Beth  mentioned  Rend 
impressed  Mabel  with  an  involuntary  sense  of  his  worthiness, 
which  she  was  the  more  ready  to  accept  from  not  believing 
it  possible  she  could  have  been  so  mistaken  in  her  confidence 
in  him. 

"It  is  a  hideous  wrong,"  she  said,  when  Bethesda  had 
finished.  "  I  cannot  understand  your  lack  of  perception,  still 
less  his.  But  that  it  is  only  blindness  I  see.  You  must  be 
guided  by  me  now :  it  is  your  only  safety.  I  will  go  and 
think  about  it.  The  next  step  may  be  into  an  abyss  or  to 
safety." 

Mrs.  Trescott  left  her,  and  Bethesda  had  leaned  against  the 
railing  at  the  stern,  and  watched  the  seething  waves,  with 
thoughts  which  were  incoherent  and  restless  and  perturbed  as 
they.  The  pristine  clearness  of  her  mind  was  beaten  to  an 
opaque  mass  by  the  repeated  shocks  of  circumstance  against 
emotion.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  whirling,  eddying,  foaming 
track  would  deafen  her  with  its  conflict ;  and  yet  she  must  be 
quick  to  hear  both  the  voices  within  and  without  and  to  dis- 
tinguish which  edicts  were  the  right. 


188  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

Something  within  her  was  meantime  working  slowly,  labori- 
ously, to  an  unseen  end.  It  was  as  if  her  heart  were  a  besieged 
garrison,  and  the  dull  thud  of  toilers  in  an  underground  mine 
should  half  reach  her  ear.  Every  sense  must  be  on  the  alert, 
and  yet  she  knew  not  which  way  to  look  for  danger.  As  such 
a  garrison  would,  however,  visit  every  foot  of  wall  and  tower 
to  discover  any  hidden  weakness,  so  she  visited  the  fortifications 
built  around  her  heart,  and  was  forced  to  admit  that  there  were 
many  places  not  impregnable. 

Once  conscious  of  this,  she  hastened  to  take  treacherous 
conscience  from  the  side  of  her  foes  by  writing  to  Rene",  and 
expressing  her  dissatisfaction  in  remembering  their  actions 
during  the  last  days  they  were  together. 

"  I  believe  you  felt  this  as  well  as  I,"  she  wrote.  "  You 
did  not  find  me  keeping  you  on  a  high  plane  as  you  would  have 
desired  me  ideally  to  have  done.  I  should  have  had  clearer 
perception,  and  been  less  blinded  by  emotion.  I  was,  on  the 
contrary,  less  clear-sighted  than  you.  And  I  believe,  deep  in 
your  mind,  you  blame  me  for  it,  as  you  should.  Once  I  said 
to  you — do  you  remember  ? — that  we  were  not  to  forgive  any 
evil,  even  to  one  another,  until  the  wrong -doing  had  been 
repented.  Now  I  repeat  it,  Rene'.  You  must  not  forgive  me, 
I  must  not  forgive  you,  until  we  have  proved  our  repentance 
for  the  errors  we  have  committed." 

It  was  when  she  had  just  finished  writing  this  that  Marcot 
brought  her  a  message  from  Mrs.  Trescott,  who  wished  to  see 
her  downstairs.  When  she  reached  the  close  state-room  she 
found  Mabel  sitting  on  the  sofa  with  a  portentous  face.  She 
made  place  for  Bethesda  beside  her,  and  tried  to  take  her  hand. 
The  girl  evaded  it.  There  was  something  in  her  aunt's  manner 
which  proved  caresses  only  sugar-plums  to  buy  some  desired 
action,  and  Beth  proudly  resented  being  treated  in  so  childish 
a  manner. 

"  You  wanted  me  1 "  she  said. 

Mabel  bent  forward  and  looked  in  Beth's  face,  while  she 
tried  to  broach  the  subject  in  an  easier  manner.  But  Bethesda 
was  on  the  defensive,  and  reiterated  her  question  briefly. 

"Yes,  I  did  want  you;  I  do  want  you,"  then  returned 
Mabel;  "  I  am  yearning  to  do  for  you." 

"  To  do  what  1 "  asked  Bethesda. 


CHAP.  I.]  A  TERRIBLE  REQUEST.  189 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you,"  began  her  aunt,  and  stopped. 

Bethesda  waited,  with  clear  observant  eyes  on  her  com- 
panion's face. 

"Beth,"  commenced  Mabel  again,  this  time  in  hurried 
accents,  "  you  have  often  said  you  loved  me,  that  you  would 
like  some  way  to  prove  your  affection  and  gratitude  to  me. 
Now  I  ask  you  for  the  greatest  proof  you  can  give."  She 
waited  a  moment,  with  one  of  those  impressive  pauses  which 
often  italicise  silence  as  well  as  speech.  Then  she  went  on  : 
"  This  between  you  and  Rene*  seems  dreadfully  wrong  to  me ; 
absolutely  wicked.  The  past  we  cannot  alter,  but  for  the 
future  you  are  responsible.  You  cannot  judge  clearly  now,  so 
I  ask  you  for  one  year  not  to  write  to  Rend,  to  let  entire 
silence  reign  between  you  ;  and  this,  darling,  because  of  your 
love  for  me." 

Bethesda  sat  staring  at  her,  wounded,  stunned.  How 
could  she  thus  destroy  for  ever,  perhaps,  the  happiness  of  two 
lives  1  And  yet  the  long  love  for  her  aunt,  the  keen  desire  to 
prove  herself  not  wanting  in  this  crucial  test,  made  her  heart 
bleed  on  every  side. 

She  could  not  speak  at  all  for  a  while,  and  Mabel  lavished 
caresses  on  her  with  a  fondness  not  free  from  terror. 

"  Go  away,  please,"  said  Bethesda  at  last,  with  itnconscious 
authority;  "I  must  have  a  chance  to  think."  And  Mrs. 
Trescott,  taken  aback,  found  herself  to  her  own  surprise 
obedient. 

Presently  Bethesda  had  slipped  quietly  up  on  deck  and  told 
Marcot  to  bring  her  portfolio  without  disturbing  Mrs.  Trescott. 
The  man  obeyed  with  a  respectful  solicitude  which  always  re- 
minded her  of  Rend.  He  had  told  her  that  Marcot  had  been 
a  faithful  retainer  of  his,  and  at  his  request  she  had  said  no  one 
else  should  know  it.  Now  she  felt  him  an  innocent  link  with 
the  past,  and  it  comforted  her  to  think  that  through  Marco  t's 
devotion  to  Rend  he  was  quick  in  observance  of  her  own  wishes. 

After  a  little  the  fresh  wind,  the  strong  air,  and  salt  expanse 
cleared  the  blurring  mist  of  incapacity  which  had  shrouded  her 
mind,  and  she  seemed  to  have  a  wide  gray  level  in  it,  similar 
to  that  spreading  beneath  and  around  her.  A  sunbeam  would 
have  flawed  it ;  a  bird's  wing  would  have  hurt  it ;  a  ship  would 
have  destroyed  it.  In  the  lifeless  calm  she  thought  it  out. 

From  their  arrival  in  America  until  the  New  Year  she 


190  BETHESDA.  [FAET  n. 

would  sacrifice  to  her  aunt  all  communication  with  Rend. 
This  would  assure  Aunt  Mabel  of  her  deep  devotion,  and  would 
serve  the  same  purpose  that  a  longer  probation  would ;  for 
what  questions  could  not  one  solve  in  six  interminable  months  ? 
And  she  acknowledged  there  were  -doubts  to  be  solved ;  she 
told  Rend  so. 

"  During  these  months,"  she  wrote,  "  we  are  to  earnestly 
try  to  judge  our  past  dispassionately,  and  see  the  light  of  truth 
on  our  future.  This  I  believe  we  equally  wish  to  do.  You, 
no  more  than  I,  would  live  wilfully  in  the  dark,  covering  our 
eyes  from  the  sunlight.  Our  positions  towards  one  another  are 
too  delicate  for  any  but  elevated  minds  to  understand ;  should 
we  not  make  it  a  rule  to  command  their  respect  1  Can  we 
afford  to  lose  one  atom  of  self-respect,  or  respect  for  each  other  1 
I  am  sure  you  will  answer  these  questions  as  I  do.  The  only 
real  question  is :  Where  is  the  wrong  ?  I  cannot  decide.  I 
am  sure  of  nothing,  except  our  mutual  confidence,  which  is  as 
this  ship  bearing  us  across  a  sea  of  waves,  the  only  thing  stead- 
fast on  the  tumultuous  ocean.  It  does  not  lose  its  integrity 
and  solidity,  no  matter  how  it  is  rocked ;  and  I  believe  it  will 
bear  us  safely  to  port  at  last." 

She  put  away  the  sheet,  and  went  with  a  light  firm  step  to 
her  aunt's  side. 

"  I  have  decided,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Trescott  glanced  quickly  into  the  pale  face,  whose 
dark  eyes  shone  starry  with  self-conquest. 

"  I  knew  you  would  do  right ! "  she  exclaimed,  catching 
Beth's  hand  and  kissing  it  rapturously.  "  I  knew  you  would 
do  as  I  said." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bethesda  in  a  low  clear  tone.  "  I  have  told 
Rend  that  he  must  not  write  me,  after  his  answer  to  this 
letter,  until  the  first  of  next  January.  Neither  shall  I  write  to 
him  until  then,  after  we  reach  America." 

"  But  that  is  only  half  as  long  as  I  asked,"  said  Mabel. 
Her  clasp  on  Beth's  hand  loosened,  and  Miss  Hamilton  drew  it 
quite  away  as  she  replied  with  steady  determination  : 

"  It  is  all  I  can  give  ;  and  it  is  long  enough  for  anything 
you  can  desire.  Do  you  remember,  Aunt  Mabel,  that  it  is  only 
four  days  since  we  left  Rend  ? "  She  paused  a  moment  to  col- 
lect her  strength  for  the  next  words.  "You  must  know,"  she 


CHAP.  I.]  FUTILE  SACRIFICES.  191 

said  then,  "  that  it  seems  to  me  a  cruel  thing  that  you  have 
asked ;  unnecessary,  and  destructive,  perhaps,  of  two  lives'  hap- 
piness. I  tell  you  this  plainly,  auntie,  because  I  wish  you  to 
realise  that  I  do  as  you  ask  me,  even  when  it  is  hardest." 

Mabel  kissed  her  hand  again,  and  said  fondly  : 

"  I  do  see  you  love  me,  darling,  and  I  think  you  are  a  very 
noble  woman.  But  it  is  a  frightfully  short  time,  only  six 
months.  Won't  you  make  it  the  year,  dear  1  It  is  not  much, 
— a  year  in  a  young  life  like  yours." 

"  It  is  not  much,  did  you  say  1 "  asked  Bethesda,  in  an  in- 
credulous tone. 

"No;  if  there  were  objections  to  a  marriage,  a  daughter 
would  always  wait  a  year,  and  think  howmuch  worse  this  is ! " 

"  I  have  given  you  a  proof  of  my  love  written  in  my  heart's 
blood,"  said  Bethesda,  "  and  you  consider  it  nothing  !  I  can 
do  no  more,  and  what  I  have  done  is  useless." 

Then,  feeling  the  despairing  inutility  of  more  words,  she 
went  away. 

It  was  this  which  made  the  voyage  so  hard.  No  concession 
brought  peace,  but,  on  the  contrary,  Mrs.  Trescott's  appetite 
seemed  to  grow  with  what  it  fed  upon.  She  ceaselessly  en- 
croached. Bethesda  was  thrown  to  and  fro,  beaten  by  Mrs. 
Trescott's  ever-unsatisfied  demands,  until  she  felt  herself,  and 
all  about  her,  dividing,  and  shattering,  and  writhing  into  new 
forms,  which  were  no  sooner  made  than  destroyed. 

If  she  could  only  have  been  left  to  herself  these  days  the 
constant  incursion  of  new  thoughts,  springing  from  the  very 
nature  of  her  relation  to  Rene',  would  have  enlightened  her 
without  arousing  resistance.  But  Mabel  was  indefatigable  in 
her  efforts  to  pluck  out  her  niece's  offending  eye,  until  at  last 
Bethesda  barricaded  herself  from  assault  by  announcing  that 
she  would  make  no  more  concessions  whatsoever,  and  that  what 
her  aunt  wished  must  be  asked  of  Rene',  not  of  her.  Nothing 
would  stir  her  from  this  position,  and  Mabel  finally  desisted,  to 
throw  her  whole  strength  into  a  letter  to  Rend,  urging  him,  by 
his  knowledge  of  the  world,  his  generosity,  his  love  itself,  to 
accord  the  year's  silence  which  Beth  had  refused. 

The  evening  before  reaching  port  Bethesda  had  written 
him  with  a  heart-wrung  abandon,  realising  that  it  was  her  last 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  him  freely  for  many  dreary  months ; 
possibly,  just  possibly,  for  ever. 


192  BETHESDA.  [PAET  n. 

"  We  are  alone  in  the  world  together,"  she  wrote.  "  We 
are  outside  the  limits  of  society,  and  our  only  aim  should  be  to 
keep  our  conscience  free,  our  lives  noble.  Kemember,  Rene',  I 
do  not  think  it  any  gift  of  mine,  that  you  hold  my  faith ;  I  do 
not  give  it,  it  is  yours.  Nothing  can  alter  this  fact.  You  are 
to  remember  it  through  all  these  months, — to  begin,  for  me, 
BO  soon ! " 

It  was  this  poignant  sense  of  last  moments  which  had  been 
all  through  their  peculiar  temptation.  The  consequences  of 
present  acts  seemed  to  be  cut  off  short  by  the  iron  hand  of 
circumstance,  which,  from  the  first,  they  knew  must  inexorably 
separate  them.  Had  it  not  been  for  these  outward  compulsions 
Bethesda  would  have  more  quickly  recognised  the  import- 
ance of  self-subjection.  She  was  now  becoming  dimly  conscious, 
through  suffering,  that  free-will,  rightly  trained,  is  the  aim  of 
the  whole  discipline  of  life. 

The  day  grew  silently  around  her  as  she  stood  this  last 
morning  on  the  upper  deck,  thinking  of  what  the  voyage  had 
brought  her,  and  what  it  had  taken  away.  A  deep  purple, 
lightening  to  amethyst  and  dull  gold,  then  flushing  to  a  soft 
rose,  replaced  the  grayness  of  the  east.  The  responsive  waters 
brightened  into  opaline  hues,  with  fire  gleaming  under  the  pearly 
ripples.  The  sky  grew  more  and  more  brilliant ;  a  few  floating 
clouds  were  touched  into  flame,  and  the  water  answered  with 
iridescent  fervour.  Finally,  a  golden  hand  of  dazzling  glory 
curved  itself  from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith,  while  the  water, 
thrilled  to  ecstasy,  ran  quivering  towards  the  shore  of  the  New 
World.  Another  instant,  and,  with  a  burst  of  splendour  which 
thrilled  like  an  organ  peal  through  every  nerve,  the  sun  rose 
and  beat  down  Bethesda's  eyes  with  its  shining. 

Presently  they  were  in  sight  of  the  city,  sparkling  in  the 
level  sunbeams,  where,  Bethesda  knew,  Margaret  was  awaiting 
them  ;  asleep,  probably,  and  yet  impatient  for  their  arrival. 

Already  the  new  protecting  element  was  coming  into  her 
life  as  she  thought  of  the  fair-haired  sister,  who  had  always 
been  so  dear  to  her,  and  now,  in  her  innocence  and  devotion, 
peculiarly  appealed  to  Bethesda's  lacerated  heart.  It  pacified 
her  to  remember  that  Margaret  knew  nothing  of  these  last 
weeks  of  intense  passionate  life.  The  story  of  even  the  literary 
compact  with  Ken£  had  been  reserved  until  they  should  meet 


CHAP,  i.]  HOME-COMING.  193 

face  to  face,  and  now,  perhaps,  it  would  never  be  told.  Ah, 
well,  it  would  be  restful  to  be  with  some  one  who  did  not  know 
too  much ;  it  would  be  good,  and  sweet,  and  comforting. 
Margaret  would  trust  her ;  Margaret  could  trust  her.  There 
should  be  no  doubt  of  that. 

What  a  thrill  of  familiar  tenderness  stirred  Bethesda's  heart 
as  she  espied  her  sister  and  Aunt  Agatha  actually  on  the  pier, 
in  spite  of  the  early  hour !  It  was  totally  unlike  any  of  the 
emotions  which  had  made  her  vital  existence  of  late.  It  was 
the  warmth  of  home  affections  and  home  knowledge ;  of  the 
unspoken  communion  of  memories,  and  of  temperaments  long 
accustomed  to  one  another.  It  was  simply,  and  all,  of  a  family, 
and  a  sister,  and  a  native  land. 

.  They  went  ashore,  and  Margaret  cried  a  little  as  she  held 
Beth  fast,  and  Bethesda  tranquillised  her  with  her  own  eyes 
moist.  Agatha  Stanhope  meantime  saw  that  the  girl  had  been 
living  ahead  of  her  strength,  and  that  she  had  been  experienc- 
ing far  more  than  a  mere  year  would  account  for,  and  she  em- 
braced her  with  a  supporting  tenderness.  Then  they  all  went 
off  to  see  about  the  luggage,  and,  finally,  to  the  hotel. 

"  You  are  to  rest  here  until  to-morrow  evening,  when  we  will 
go  home,"  said  Agatha,  with  her  usual  decision  and  searching 
glances  at  every  one  in  turn.  She  saw  now  what  made  her 
address  Mabel  directly.  "  You  will  like  to  come  1  You  have 
no  plans  to  conflict  with  this  1  I  had  promised  myself  that  we 
would  make  one  another's  acquaintance  there,  and  the  girls 
would  console  themselves  for  their  long  separation." 

The  rupture  between  the  elder  sisters  had  been  bridged  over 
roughly,  leaving  the  chasm  yawning  beneath,  but  making  it 
possible  for  them  to  meet  in  apparent  amity.  An  affection  of 
habit  had  mingled  with  the  veering  tendency  of  Mabel's  mind 
to  effect  this,  while  with  Agatha  love  and  confidence  were 
strong  enough  to  arch  over  many  fissures,  and  unite  even  deeply- 
divided  lands.  Moreover,  she  could  with  difficulty  believe  that 
the  strange  stream  between  her  and  Mabel  would  not  fade 
away  like  a  mirage  as  soon  as  nearness  should  prove  its  exist- 
ence or  unreality.  It  would  therefore  be  hard  to  describe  the 
keenness  of  her  disappointment  in  seeing  the  unanswering  chill 
in  Mabel's  manner. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  us  to  your  house,"  she  began 

now,  formally.     "  I  supposed  you  had  already  left  S .    Isn't 

O 


194  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

it  terribly  hot  there  ?  I  expected  to  go  somewhere  on  the  coast, 
the  girls  and  I,  and  that  you  and  Raleigh  would,  perhaps,  join 
us  later.  But  it  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  on  here,  if  you 
were  intending  to  go  right  back,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  and  one  of  her  warm  smiles. 

"  I  wished  to  see  you,"  replied  Agatha,  with  some  quiet 
emphasis.  "  I  think  you  will  be  quite  comfortable  with  me 
for  a  week,  or  a  month  as  far  as  that  goes.  I,  of  course,  stay 
there  as  long  as  Raleigh  does.  But  I  would  not  urge  you ;  you 
must  do  just  as  you  prefer." 

She  stood  with  a  certain  royalty  in  her  carriage  and  a  keen 
light  in  her  eyes  during  the  instant's  silence  which  followed. 
Bethesda  was  about  to  speak,  but  was  silenced  by  a  flying 
glance  from  Mrs.  Stanhope.  This  was  a  matter  between  her 
and  her  sister ;  she  was  sure  of  the  girls. 

"  Well,  thank  you,  perhaps  it  will  be  best,"  said  Mabel, 
after  that  eloquent  pause.  Agatha  turned  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
and  a  quick  gentleness  to  Bethesda. 

"  What  do  you  say  1 " 

"  I  don't  need  to  speak,"  replied  Beth,  with  a  dainty  caress. 
"  You  know  how  glad  I  am  to  be  with  you." 

Mrs.  Trescott  moved  away  with  some  impatience. 

"  Beth  ought  to  rest  now,"  she  said  abruptly ;  and  they  all 
adjourned  to  their  rooms.  Mrs.  Stanhope  went  around  softly 
after  the  girls  were  on  the  bed,  adjusting  the  blinds  and  closing 
the  mosquito  bars,  and  petting  them  with  that  unobtrusive  care 
which  proves  the  habit  of  consideration  for  others.  It  was  new 
and  charming  to  Bethesda,  and  she  found  herself,  to  her  own 
surprise,  going  to  sleep  more  easily  than  for  weeks.  The  tender 
serenity  of  Mrs.  Stanhope's  face  was  always  before  her,  and  in 
her  arms  nestled  Margaret,  softly  breathing.  As  the  fair  head 
rose  and  fell  on  Bethesda's  breast  she  felt  as  if  she-  had  taken 
refuge  in  a  sanctuary,  a  divine  stronghold  where  no  enemy  could 
reach  to  injure  her.  She  was  protected  by  the  sweet  power  of 
an  undoubted  innocence. 


CHAP,  ii.]  FOREIGN  WAYS.  195 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  The  great  moral  combat  between  human  life 
And  each  human  soul  must  be  single.     The  strife 
None  may  share,  though  by  all  its  results  may  be  known, 
When  the  soul  arms  for  battle,  she  goes  forth  alone." 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 

"To  foster  and  develop  good  in  all  its  forms  is  his  vocation." 

KUNO  FISCHER. 

THE  next  evening  they  started  for  S .  Their  party  was  a 

genial  and  cosy  one.  Mrs.  Stanhope  had  travelled  so  much  that 
the  cars  had  become  a  second  home  to  her,  and  she  knew  how 
to  make  the  porters  and  officials  as  attentive  as  her  own  domestics 
would  have  been. 

Poor  Marcot,  who  was  quite  confused  and  dazed  by  all  this 
new  life  and  strange  customs,  was  useless,  and  felt  himself  so ; 
and  Bethesda,  with  a  smile,  dismissed  him  to  his  own  car. 

"  What  did  you  bring  him  home  for  ? "  asked  Margaret ; 
and  Agatha  remarked : 

"  I  should  not  have  been  surprised  at  it  in  Mabel ;  she  is 
so  foreign  I  have  difficulty  in  understanding  her " 

"  But,  Agatha  ! "  remonstrated  Mrs.  Trescott. 

"  It's  true,"  asseverated  Mrs.  Stanhope,  "  and  I  should  have 
thought  it  quite  fitting  had  you  brought  home  a  French  servant ; 
but  I  hear  it  was  Beth's  idea." 

"  Yes ;  she  came  back  from  here  full  of  the  notion.  She 
thought  it  would  be  quite  distingue  to  have  a  garqon,  and  was 
looking  out  for  one  in  Italy,  but  we  found  none.  There  was 
one  creature  there  who  would  be  just  a  pleasure  to  have  in  the 
room,  a  perfect  Adonis,  you  know,  but  I  told  Beth  it  would 
never  do.  He  couldn't  be  kept  in  his  position  here,  you  see ; 
he  would  have  become  insufferably  vain.  You  don't  see  such 
handsome  men  in  America  as  in  Europe,  especially  Southern 
Europe,  and,  en  revanche,  you  see  nowhere  such  pretty  women 
as  in  America.  Ma  foi !  what  a  number  of  them  there  are  ! 
Why,  at  the  Windsor,  there  were  at  least  half  a  dozen  girls  who 
would  be  stared  at  from  every  corner  on  the  Continent,  and 
here  they  seem  to  be  considered  nothing  remarkable.  A  propos, 
how  do  you  think  Beth  is  looking  ? " 


196  BETIIESDA.  [PART  n. 

A  sudden  anxiety  betrayed  itself  in  her  words  as  she  turned 
to  look  at  her  sister,  who  had  been  studying  her  quietly. 

"  Beth  is  not  well,"  said  Agatha  gravely ;  "  she  seems  worn 
and  harassed.  She  is  not  looking  nearly  so  well  as  you  do. 
The  voyage  must  have  agreed  with  you." 

"  Hum  !  And  yet  I  have  had  all  the  hard  work  while  Beth 
was  resting  in  London.  But  she  is  tired  now.  Travelling 
fatigues  her.  Why,  how  English  this  looks  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
breaking  off  from  her  former  speech  abruptly. 

They  were  going  up  the  Hudson  River,  and  the  daylight 
was  still  sufficient  to  show  them  the  beautiful  banks  covered 
with  parks  and  country  seats.  Mabel  leaned  across  the  car  to 
attract  the  girls'  attention. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  live  somewhere  here  in  the  summer  1 
It  would  remind  you,  Beth,  of  Mrs.  Randleth ;  and  Clarence 
might  come  some  time  to  row  you  up.  and  down  the  Hudson 
instead  of  the  Thames." 

"  He  never  did  that,  and  I  fancy  he  never  will  this,"  replied 
Bethesda  indifferently. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  noted  the  tone.  She  and  Margaret  had 
heard  of  this  Clarence,  and  Agatha  was  seeking  a  reason  for 
Beth's  change.  It  evidently  was  not  here. 

"  But  wouldn't  you  like  a  summer  place  here,  even  without 
that  inducement  1 "  insisted  Mabel.  "  There  !  that  house,  par 
example.  Shall  we  take  it,  girls  1 " 

"  I  had  rather  not  talk  about  plans  now,"  said  Bethesda. 
"  Aunt  Agatha  told  us  to  rest  first,  and  I  feel  like  obeying  her." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  seat  wearily,  and  the  loving  eyes  of 
Margaret  were  quick  to  discover  it,  and  to  see  the  look  of 
troubled  sadness  which  replaced  all  other  expression  in  Beth- 
esda's  face  during  any  lull  of  interest.  There  was  something 
here  which  Margaret  would  leave  to  time  to  explain,  or  would 
trust  to  Beth  without  explanation.  She  was  one  of  those  with 
whom  absolute  confidence  is  the  kernel  of  love. 

All  night  and  the  following  day  they  sped  on  through  the 
strangely  familiar  land.  They  talked  much,  exchanging  experi- 
ences— the  lighter  ones — telling  anecdotes  of  travel  and  home 
life;  of  friends  to  one  only,  or  old  mutual  acquaintances;  of 
new  thoughts ;  of  memories ;  in  fine,  enjoying  that  renewal  of 
old  associations  with  congenial  friends,  and  gauging  their  de- 
velopment, which  is,  to  sensitive  minds,  a  fragrant  delight. 


CHAP.  II.]  SEEKING  A  CLUE.  197 

But  Bethesda  felt  herself,  at  times,  a  stranger  here.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  corne  with  a  carefully-stored  memory  of  unimportant 
personal  events,  and  the  names  of  friends,  to  foist  herself  on 
them  as  a  Bethesda  Hamilton  they  once  knew.  Then,  suddenly, 
shaming  this  alienation,  would  come  a  flood  of  tenderness,  of 
affection,  of  gratitude  to  these  dear  ones,  and  she  would  give 
them  some  mute  caress  as  an  apology,  or  a  frank  acknowledg- 
ment of  her  feeling ;  at  least  to  Mrs.  Stanhope. 

"  It  will  come  back,"  said  Agatha  once.  "  We  must  try  to 
be  patient,  my  dear ;  then  some  day,  perhaps,  these  years  that 
have  intervened  will  be  as  strange  to  you  as  this  is  now." 

"  Oh  no  ! "  exclaimed  Bethesda,  with  a  startled  shrinking ; 
"  that  could  not  be." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  replied  Agatha,  wisely  not  insisting.  "  You 
are  different  than  you  were  last  year,  Beth.  America  did  not 
seem  so  unfamiliar  to  you  then,  and  yet  you  had  been  longer 
without  seeing  it." 

"  I  know  I  have  changed,  Aunt  Agatha.  I  am  trying  to 
find  my  way  to  the  why  of  it  all,"  she  went  on  uncertainly. 
"  I  think  it  began  when  I  came  home  last  year ;  that  is  the  way 
it  looks  to  me  now.  Somehow,  it  all  disappointed  me ;  not  you, 
dear  auntie,  nor  Margaret,  nor  anything  about  you,  which, 
indeed,  delighted  me  as  much  as  the  rest  dissatisfied  me.  I 
suppose  I  had  some  foolish  ideal  of  my  country  which  was 
merely  a  girlish  notion ;  but  the  current  of  American  life  was 
not  as  pure  and  simple  as  I  had  expected  to  find  it.  It  had 
lost  its  pristine  clearness,  and  yet  had  not  reached  the  stage  of 
filtering,  and  so  what  I  saw  was  turbid,  I  thought ;  at  any  rate, 
distasteful.  Probably  my  view  was  very  superficial  and  inap- 
preciative.  I  have  too  much  faith  in  America  not  to  believe  it 
was  my  mistake,  but  it  influenced  me  strongly.  I  went  back 
to  Europe  really  feeling  that  was  more  natural  to  me  than 
America,  that  it  was  to  Europe  I  belonged.  I  think — I  think 
that  was  where  it  began." 

She  ended  more  undecidedly  than  she  had  commenced,  and 
looked  with  a  certain  appeal  at  Mrs.  Stanhope's  reliable  face. 
It  would  inspire  confidence  in  any  one ;  every  line  and  curve  of 
it,  as  of  her  mind,  was  nobly  proportioned,  so  that  one  felt  no 
pettiness  obscured  her  judgment  or  interfered  with  her  large 
charity.  She  was  pre-eminently  one  who  helped  others  to  help 
themselves,  and  Bethesda  needed  such  assistance  sorely  then. 


198  BETIIESDA.  [PAET  ii. 

The  silence  grew  quite  long,  however,  before  Agatha  spoke. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  your  mother,"  she  said  then.  "  You 
are  like  her  in  many  ways.  I  remember  when  you  were  born 
your  eyes  went  following  the  light  around  the  room  as  soon  as 
they  opened.  I  told  her  of  it,  and  she  said  :  '  I  trust  my  little 
daughter  will  always  follow  the  light.'  They  were  almost  the 
last  words  she  said." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  spoke  with  an  undertone  of  feeling  and  com- 
prehension which  made  the  familiar  story  take  on  a  startling 
meaning  to  Bethesda's  seeking  mind.  Of  course  Aunt  Mabel 

had  often  told  it  to  her,  but  now Why,  it  was  like  a  voice 

from  Heaven,  and  that  voice  a  mother's  ! 

Presently  Agatha  began  talking  easily  on  casual  subjects, 
not  seeming  to  notice  Bethesda's  silence.  Her  conversation  was 
always  interesting,  and  generally  witty  and  merry ;  but  there 
was  not  a  sentence  she  uttered,  no  matter  how  light,  which  did 
not  convey  to  a  ready  mind  some  result  of  penetration  or  trait 
of  character,  or  give  one  an  idea  as  a  clue  to  the  problems 
which  abound  in  life.  She  studied  every  one  she  met,  knowing 
human  nature  too  well  to  "classify"  individuals — that  odious 
habit  which  is  born  of  ignorance  and  breeds  all  manner  of  mis- 
understandings— and  thus  had  been  developed  in  her  a  dis- 
criminating love  of  humanity  which  constantly  tended  towards 
a  wise  development  of  those  around  her,  and  especially  of  reason 
and  true  freedom. 

Bethesda  found  herself  often  shrinking  involuntarily  from 
remarks  which  made  gashes  in  her  past,  to  let  the  light  of 
truth  shine  through ;  but  there  also  came  an  invigoration  and 
strength  such  as  is  gained  from  bitter  tonics,  which  makes  one 
willing  to  drink  deep  for  the  health  gained.  And  there  was 
no  dear  disease  to  which  Bethesda  Hamilton  clung  when  she 
recognised  it  as  such.  The  only  thing  necessary  to  renounce- 
ment was  to  convince  her  that  what  she  felt  was  disease,  and 
this  was  often  hard  to  do. 

She  was  being  subjected  now,  however,  to  a  new  alchemy, 
and  the  nights  were  the  only  time  when  she  found  herself,  as  it 
were,  and  fused  the  different  metals  of  her  past  and  present 
together.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  accomplish  this 
except  for  the  ardent  and  ceaseless  flame  of  her  devotion  to 
Rend  The  fidelity  of  her  nature  to  one  who  had  been  acknow- 
ledged supreme  to  her  was  as  a  golden  chain  on  which  her  life's 


CHAP,  n.]  CORRESPONDENCES.  199 

incidental  beads  were  strung,  to  make — yes,  it  should  be  so — a 
rosary. 

Lying  in  her  berth  with  the  window-curtain  drawn  back, 
and  all  dark  and  silent  in  the  car,  she  seemed  to  herself  like  a 
shadow  fleeing  through  space  and  gazing  down  on  her  future 
life.  It  was  glorious  moonlight,  and  the  prairies  now  spread 
about  her  with  the  same  long  lines  as  had  done  the  sea.  The 
wide  grassy  billows  undulating  away  to  the  horizon,  where 
rarely  a  tree  disturbed  its  low  line;  occasionally  a  pond 
covered  with  water-lilies,  the  white  blossoms  like  stars,  amid 
which  the  moon  reflected  itself  in  the  still  depths ;  and  over 
and  around  all  that  air  which  to  one  new  from  Europe  seems 
to  allow  no  illusion  of  atmosphere  to  heighten  effect,  but  shows 
abruptly  each  object,  even  in  the  moonlight,  and  makes  one 
realise  constantly  that  one  is  in  a  different  land. 

"And  it  is  different,"  thought  Bethesda,  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  resolve.  "  My  life  now  will  be  like  these  prairies ; 
monotonous,  yet  not  petty,  from  the  very  extent  of  their 
monotony;  rolling  in  grass  and  flower -covered  curves  to  the 
unseen  distance,  with  an  atmosphere  granting  no  enchantment, 
only  clear  following  of  one's  path  of  duty ;  and  above — may 
they  always  be  reflected  among  the  lilies  ! — a  pure  ambition, 
and  the  sky." 

The  moon  crossed  the  cloudless  heavens,  while  the  fleeting 
scene  repeated  itself  for  mile  after  mile.  It  shone  on  Bethesda 
with  a  white  radiance,  and  she  welcomed  it  with  a  smile.  It 
was  the  same  moon  which,  as  a  crescent,  she  had  pointed  out  to 
Rene'.  She  thought  of  what  she  had  told  him  he  might  remem- 
ber, and  that  now  its  whole  surface  was  resplendent  in  the 
light  of  the  sun. 

In  the  morning  they  reached  S .  Raleigh  Stanhope 

was  at  the  station  to  meet  them,  and  welcomed  them  with 
hearty  cordiality.  The  carriage  was  waiting,  and  Marcot 
climbed  to  the  driver's  seat,  while  Mr.  Stanhope  stood  a 
moment  at  the  door  with  uncovered  head,  and  the  upright, 
manly  attitude  Bethesda  had  always  admired. 

"  I  can't  go  home  with  you,"  he  was  saying,  "  but  Agatha 
will  take  better  care  of  you  than  I  could,  and  will  make  you 
welcome  to  our  house  for  as  long  as  we  can  prevail  upon  you  to 
stay.  Good  morning,  ladies.  Home,  Jessup." 

He   waited  on  the  curbstone  until  they   had  rolled  off. 


200  BETHESDA.  [I-AUT  n. 

"  What  hungry  eyes  that  girl  has  ! "  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
turned  and  walked  towards  his  office.  He  was  usually  on  the 
alert  when  in  town,  but  to-day  two  or  three  acquaintances 
passed  him  without  recognition.  "  She  has  come  to  the  right 
place  for  food ;  my  wife  will  give  it  to  her,"  he  finally  solilo- 
quised, and  with  this  confidence  let  the  haunting  face  slip  from 
his  mind,  and  soon  was  engrossed  in  affairs. 

The  home  to  which  the  wanderers  were  welcomed  was  a 
beautiful  house,  situated  on  the  best  corner  of  a  fashionable 
street.  One  could  always  be  sure  that  whatever  Raleigh 
Stanhope  possessed  was  excellent.  It  was  •  a  double  house, 
planned  by  Agatha,  with  spacious  rooms  and  few  stairs,  and 
the  large  hall,  shadowy,  with  a  stained -glass  window  at  the 
division  of  the  staircase,  was  its  chef  d'oeuvre.  There  were  a 
few  fine  pictures  and  statues  against  a  chocolate-coloured  wall, 
and  the  wood-work  was  handsomely  carved.  Nothing  about 
the  house  was  common.  The  ornaments  were  elegant  and  of 
pronounced  value,  but  never  showy ;  while  each  apartment 
presented  an  aspect  distinctively  handsome  and  stately.  Mrs. 
Trescott  thought  it  a  little  cold  and  stiff;  but  Bethesda 
delighted  in  the  house,  and  found  it  eminently  characteristic 
of  its  owners.  One  could  see  at  a  glance  that  money  or  treasure 
of  any  kind  was  a  means,  not  an  end,  in  this  household,  and 
that  an  intelligent  generosity  held  the  purse-strings. 

"It  is  all  so  beautiful  and  solidly  restful ! "  exclaimed 
Bethesda,  her  weariness  forgotten,  as  her  spirit  often  did  ignore 
the  cries  of  her  body.  "  It  is  just  like  you,  Aunt  Agatha,"  and 
she  went  to  lay  her  cheek  against  Mrs.  Stanhope's  shoulder 
with  a  momentary  caress. 

"  How  much  you  two  are  alike,"  said  Margaret ;  "  aren't 
they,  Aunt  Mabel }  I  never  noticed  it  before." 

The  resemblance  was  indeed  quite  marked.  Mrs.  Stanhope 
was  somewhat  taller  than  Bethesda,  and  the  slender  grace  of  the 
one  had  developed  into  a  noble  maturity  in  the  other ;  but  the 
long,  fine  lines  of  each  were  alike,  and  the  colouring  similar. 
Agatha's  hair  was  a  darker  shade  of  Bethesda's ;  her  eyes  a 
clear  blue,  not  large,  but  extraordinarily  searching,  and  capable 
of  great  tenderness.  But  the  loveliest  feature  of  her  face  was 
her  mouth.  It  was  well  shaped  by  nature,  and  the  lips  were 
pink  as  an  oleander  blossom.  No  one  noticed,  however,  these 
attributes  in  considering  the  complete  beauty  of  expression  that 


CHAP,  ii.]  HOME  A  LARGEK  SELF.  201 

gave  its  supreme  attraction.  It  was  tender,  sweet,  chastened, 
resigned;  it  was  cheerful,  hopeful,  dainty,  devoted;  it  was 
expressive  of  a  rounded  development  of  character  as  rare  as  it 
is  priceless,  and  as  comforting  as  it  is  inspiring.  This  it  was 
that  caused  Bethesda  to  remark  a  little  sadly : 

"  There  is  no  one  I  would  more  like  to  resemble,  but  I  fear 
I  never  shall." 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Agatha  softly.  "  Now,  shall  we 
go  upstairs  1 " 

"Aunt  Mabel,"  exclaimed  Bethesda  a  moment  later,  "I 
want  you  to  notice  how  comfortable  everything  is.  There  is 
not  a  single  article  which  is  not  of  use,  either  in  suggestion  or 
action.  That  is  what  makes  the  house  so  perfect  to  my  mind." 

"  It  is  not  perfect  yet,"  said  Agatha,  smiling  at  her  niece's 
enthusiasm.  "  There  is  still  much  to  be  done.  When  I  have 
it  quite  perfect,  of  which  there  is  no  immediate  danger,  I  shall 
wish  to  build  again." 

"  That  is  a  bizarre  notion,"  exclaimed  Mabel.  "  I  am  so 
different.  The  longer  I  live  anywhere,  and  the  better  it  suits 
me,  the  more  devoted  I  become  to  it.  I  like  even  a  chair  and 
a  window  that  I  am  used  to.  But  you  never  did  have  the  love 
of  place  I  have." 

"  It  is  possible  that  one  who  judged  from  the  facts  might 
not  agree  with  you,"  remarked  Agatha  in  her  quiet  way. 

"  Oh,  it  hasn't  been  my  fault  that  I  have  been  tossed  around 
the  world  so.  It  has  always  been  a  sacrifice  of  myself  to  others. 
I  should  have  had  a  home  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for  these 
girls,  especially  Beth's  health  and  studies.  Oh  !  " — she  broke 
oft'  suddenly  at  the  door  of  the  apartment  assigned  to  her — 
"  what  a  ravissante  room  !  And  how  Frenchy  it  is  ! " 

Then,  for  the  first  time  since  her  arrival,  she  turned  and 
gave  her  sister  a  spontaneous  kiss, 

"Your  trunks  will  be  up  soon,  I  suppose,"  said  Agatha, 
an  amused  twinkle  in  her  eyes ;  "  but  don't  wait  for  them. 
Here  are  wrapper  and  slippers  at  your  disposal.  I  am  glad  you 
like  the  room.  You  had  better  take  a  good  rest.  Come, 
girls." 

"  I'm  coming  too,"  cried  Mabel.  "  I  must  see  the  rest  of 
your  pretty  house  now." 

Margaret's  room  communicated  with  Agatha's,  and  was  the 
cosiest  nook  in  the  house.  The  harmony  of  colour  and  arrange- 


202  BETHESDA.  [PAKT  II. 

ment  was  perfect.  Olive -green  and  sky-blue  intermixed  and 
interwove,  until  the  chamber  seemed  like  a  mossy  dell  with 
the  blue  air  of  Italy  seen  through  the  interstices.  There  were 
numerous  pictures  on  the  painted  walls,  and  the  ceiling  was 
frescoed  with  symbols  of  Margaret,  in  which  the  daisy  and  pearl 
predominated.  As  a  frieze  there  was  an  inscription  in  old  English 
letters  of  a  sentence  taken  from  one  of  the  Alhambric  halls  :  — 

"  In  this  garden  of  delights  I,  am  an  eye, 
And  the  pupil  thereof  is  indeed  our  Lord." 

The  tears  came  to  Bethesda's  eyes  as  she  looked  about  and 
found  herself  in  this  pure  refuge,  where  the  air  was  sweet  with 
noble  aims.  Her  sister  seemed  very  much  like  Saint  Margaret 
to  her  then. 

Mabel  was  in  ecstasies. 

"  Where  did  you  ever  find  such  ideas  ? "  she  exclaimed 
again  and  again.  "  You  are  really  a  genius,  Agatha.  There  is 
not  another  such  room  in  the  universe.  How  did  you  ever 
think  of  it  all  1  C'est  cela  qui  m'etonne  !  I  don't  remember 
any  such  ideas  in  New  England." 

"  It  is  ten  years  since  I  lived  there,"  said  Agatha  quietly. 

"  Tant  pis  !  "  exclaimed  Mabel,  striking  her  forehead  with 
a  theatric  gesture.  "  "We  are  ten  years  older  ! " 

"We  will  grow  old  faster  if  we  don't  sleep,"  said  Agatha, 
somewhat  drily.  "  The  girls  look  very  tired." 

"  That's  true,  and  I  am  simply  ecrasee"  said  the  incorrigible 
Mabel,  letting  her  arms  fall  with  sudden  lassitude.  "Andiamo." 

As  this  third  language  was  introduced  there  was  a  general 
laugh. 

"  What  have  I  done  now  V  asked  Mabel,  with  wide,  innocent 
eyes.  "You  are  all  laughing  at  me.  What  have  I  said  so 
witty?" 

"  No  one  would  attempt  to  repeat  you,"  said  Agatha. 

It  was  very  warm  weather,  but  a  strong  wind  was  blowing, 
and  no  one  but  Mabel  minded  the  heat.  Indeed  Margaret  and 
Bethesda  felt  warm  days  peculiarly  luxurious,  especially  in  a 
house  such  as  this,  where  every  comfort  was  at  hand.  Mrs. 
Trescott,  however,  complained  loudly  of  "this  atrocious  American 
climate,  always  in  extremes,  and  with  heat  like  a  furnace, 
not " 

"A  bath,"  as  Agatha  suggested  when  a  comparison  was 
wanting. 


CHAP,  ii.]  RE-ACQUAINTANCE.  203 

"  A  bath  indeed  !  Fie  !  Italy  is  the  most  delicious  place 
in  the  world.  The  climate  never  takes  you  by  surprise.  If 
there  is  to  be  a  change  you  are  prepared  gradually,  and  don't 
have  your  ears  boxed  by  these  sudden  antipodes  of  heat  and 
cold." 

"You  have  not  experienced  any  such  changes  yet,  have 
you  ? "  asked  Mr.  Stanhope  courteously,  for  they  were  now  at 
dinner,  and  Mrs.  Trescott  was  in  the  seat  of  the  honoured 
guest. 

"  No,"  said  Mabel,  with  a  quick  shrug ;  "  our  welcome  has 
been  warm  in  more  ways  than  one." 

"  You  would  like  it  to  change  1 "  asked  Raleigh,  a  flash  in 
his  keen  eyes. 

"  Oh  no  !  quite  on  the  contrary,  I  assure  you,"  exclaimed 
Mabel,  covering  her  faux  pas  with  voluminous  compliments. 
"  You  have  greeted  us  with  such  delightful  cordiality  that  we 
could  not  wish  even  the  weather  to  change,  if  that  would  alter 
it.  But  I  trust  there  is  no  such  danger,"  and  she  beamed  upon 
him  one  of  her  most  tropical  smiles. 

Raleigh  bowed  with  a  look  of  bewilderment  which  amused 
his  wife  and  caused  her  to  say  : 

"  We  find  her  almost  as  difficult  to  follow  as  she  does  the 
weather,  don't  we  1  Would  you  recognise  her,  Raleigh  1  Sup- 
pose you  met  her  accidentally,  do  you  think  you  would  immedi- 
ately call  her  Mabel  ? " 

"  The  family  resemblance  is  too  strong  for  it  ever  to  be  obli- 
terated," he  returned ;  "  but  foreign  life  certainly  has  changed 
her." 

"Improvement,  I  hope  ?"  said  Mabel  coquettishly. 

"No  doubt,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "Are  not  the  changes 
of  a  fair  woman  always  from  good  to  better  ? " 

"  Ma  foi  !  You  are  quite  a  Frenchman,  Raleigh.  But  I 
remember  you  always  did  have  a  pretty  way  of  turning  things." 

When  this  little  tilt  was  over  Mr.  Stanhope  felt  authorised 
to  give  some  of  his  attention  to  Bethesda,  who  sat  at  his  left, 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  addressed  her  was,  in  spite  of 
intention,  more  easy  and  solicitous.  There  was  something 
touching  to  the  strong,  satisfied  man  in  her  hungry  yet  brave 
eyes.  He  seemed  to  look  upon  her  as  a  frail  vessel  which  a 
touch  might  break,  and  yet  which  needed  support.  And  she  in 
turn  admired  him  heartily. 


204  BETHESDA.  [I-AKT  n. 

The  prevailing  characteristics  of  his  face  were  rectitude  and 
warmth  of  feeling.  His  mind  was  active  and  deep ;  alive  to  all 
the  questions  of  the  day,  and  probing  beneath  them  to  the 
principles  that  made  them  good  or  ill.  Philosophy  and  political 
economy,  finance  and  social  duties,  were  equally  familiar  to 
him.  He  was  one  of  those  men  one  meets  on  rare  occasions 
who  seem  to  have  every  subject  chambered  in  their  brains,  and 
each  occupant  alert.  He  was  punctilious  in  regard  to  the 
observance  of  conventionalities,  and  stern,  almost  rigid,  in  his 
opinions  on  any  point  of  honour  or  honesty.  Otherwise  he  was 
very  coaxable,  and  always  generous.  There  were  a  dozen  young 
men  in  town  whom  he  had  started  in  individual  careers,  and 
who  were  proud  of  being  called  "  Mr.  Stanhope's  young  men." 
A  willing  hand  and  a  well-trained  brain  found  a  faithful  friend 
in  Raleigh  Stanhope ;  a  shitless,  lazy  fellow  found  sharp  words 
and,  up  to  a  certain  point,  an  easy  kindliness  of  heart.  But 
let  integrity,  in  whatevej  form,  be  touched,  and  no  man  lives 
who  was  quicker  to  unsheathe  the  sword  and  deal  trenchant 
blows  than  Raleigh  Stanhope. 

The  unity  which  reigned  between  him  and  his  wife,  who 
could  not  be  divided  in  thought  any  more  than  in  deed,  was 
remarkable  and  complete.  The  consummate  tact  and  calm 
audacity  with  which  she  treated  him  were  without  rival,  and 
her  accurate  perceptions  often  aided  him  through  close  places, 
"  which,"  he  was  fond  of  saying,  "  a  man  without  such  a  wife 
would  have  been  squeezed  to  death  in." 

Now,  as  they  sat  on  either  side  of  their  richly  spread  table, 
dispensing  hospitality  to  their  guests,  entertaining  and  invigo- 
rating them  at  once,  an  occupation  which  seemed  peculiarly 
suitable  to  both,  Bethesda  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with 
unconcealed  admiration,  and  also  a  sigh,  which  was  imme- 
diately smothered. 

The  conversation  turned  upon  jokes  which  Mrs.  Stanhope 
was  constantly  playing  on  her  husband,  who  took  so  boyish  an 
enjoyment  in  them  that  he  would  remind  her  of  one  story  after 
another  to  be  told  at  his  expense.  It  was  Mrs.  Trescott's  turn 
for  amazement  at  this,  and  she  turned  astonished  eyes  from 
one  to  the  other  with  a  wonder  which  only  added  to  the  fun, 
as  anecdote  after  anecdote  was  detailed  about  this  man  who 
was  the  only  person  in  the  world,  she  asseverated,  of  whom 
she  was  afraid. 


CHAP.  II.]  TENDERNESS.  205 

"When  they  ended  the  repast  it  was  in  a  burst  of  merriment 
which  made  the  contrast  that  followed  the  more  effective.  Off 
from  the  library  was  a  wire -screened  porch,  where  there  were 
easy  chairs  and  a  swinging  lamp  turned  down  to  a  dim  lustre. 
The  delicious  perfume  of  tea-roses,  with  which  the  garden  was 
filled,  came  in  soft  gusts,  like  the  passing  of  some  sweet  pre- 
sence ;  the  stars  shone  through  the  clear  air,  far  away  and  fine  ; 
a  branch  over  the  trellis  was  blown  now  and  again  to  touch 
Bethesda's  cheek,  and  it  made  her  quiver  with  a  thrill  of 
memory  too  keen  for  pleasure,  yet  which  she  would  not  move 
to  avoid. 

The  yearning,  the  intense  longing  of  her  whole  being  for 
Rene"  then,  made  it  seem  as  if  she  could  actually  see  her  spirit 
leaving  her,  and  cleaving  the  air  as  it  flew  swiftly  to  its  bourne. 
Oh,  to  be  for  once,  just  once,  at  rest ! 

"  Beth,  dear,  are  you  cold  1 "  asked  Margaret,  touching  her 
hand.  It  was  burning.  "  I  thought  you  must  be  cold,  you 
shivered  so,"  she  added  simply. 

Bethesda  roused  herself  at  this,  and  talked  with  a  deafening 
uproar  in  her  ears  which  often  made  her  obliged  to  strain  her 
hearing  to  the  utmost  to  be  able  to  understand  what  persons 
said. 

Presently  Agatha  excused  herself,  and  a  few  moments  later 
called  Beth. 

"  There  is  some  wine  for  you,"  she  said.  "Are  the  perfumfes 
from  the  garden  oppressive  ?  I  see  you  are  not  feeling  well." 

"Oh  no ;  the  roses  are  delicious.  I  am  only  tired,  I 
suppose." 

"  Come  with  me,  then,  a  while." 

They  went  into  the  study,  where  every  draught  was  caught, 
and  which  was  only  lighted  by  the  reflections  of  the  street 
lamps.  Mrs.  Stanhope  bade  her  niece  lie  down  on  a  bamboo 
sofa,  and  then  sat  and  fanned  her,  talking  with  gradually 
lengthening  pauses  between  her  words. 

Silence  at  length  prevailed.  Bethesda's  eyes  were  shut,  and 
her  hand  rested  on  her  aunt's  knee  with  a  clinging  confidence. 
She  would  like,  she  was  thinking,  to  be  alone  with  Aunt  Agatha 
and  Margaret  for  a  long,  long  time ; — that  is,  if  she  could  without 
hurting  any  one.  Possibly  for  Aunt  Mabel  too  it  would  be 
best ;  but,  if  not,  she  did  not  wish  to  be  selfish.  This  half- 
hour  was  hers  at  least.  She  could  lie  here,  soothed  and  rested 


206  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

by  the  silence,  the  sympathy,  and  an  occasional  glance  at 
Aunt  Agatha's  self-contained  and  chastened  face.  A  willing 
renunciation,  and  thence  peace,  was  what  spoke  so  eloquently 
from  these  features.  What  would  be  her  advice  if  she  could 
see  her  niece's  heart  ?  Bethesda  rose  presently,  restless  with 
encroaching  thoughts. 

"You  are  so  good  to  me  ! "  she  said  fondly,  as  Agatha  rose 
also  to  join  the  others. 

"  You  have  liked  it  1 "  asked  Agatha,  bending  to  kiss  her. 
She  always  loved  persons  best  when  she  could  do  most  for 
them.  And  Bethesda  did  not  answer  except  by  a  touch. 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  We  have  one  element  that  makes  fo'  peace  ;  and  another'h  element 
that  makes  fo'  strhife — ;  but,  my-de'-seh,  the  peace  element  is  that 
which  ought  to  make  the  strhife,  and  the  strhife  element  is  that  which 
ought  to  be  made  to  keep  the  peace." — GEO.  W.  CABLE. 

"My-de'-seh,  you  mus'  crhack  the  egg,  not  smash  it." — Ibid. 

THE  next  day  came  the  first  letter  from  Rene',  What  a 
rush  of  conflicting  emotions  swept  through  Bethesda's  mind  at 
the  sight  of  the  familiar  writing  and  crest.  Delight,  poignant 
memories,  satisfaction,  and  trembling  uncertainty,  were  all 
finally  engulfed  in  a  deep  and  sure  tenderness. 

She  took  the  letter  into  her  own  room  to  read.  It  was 
written  while  he  was  still  in  Liverpool,  and  when  he  was  in 
the  full  surge  of  a  passionate  grief  which  swept  him  off  his 
feet.  To  the  woman,  struggling  for  pure  light,  for  equipoise, 
and  stainless  chastity,  it  was  inexpressibly  painful.  Alas  !  that 
this  should  be  the  letter  written  when  he  was  most  vividly 
under  her  influence  ! 

Mabel  had  heard  that  Beth  had  received  a  foreign  letter, 
and  came  in  to  see  it.  Her  face  was  accusing  and  obdurate. 
Nothing,  Bethesda  knew  by  experience,  could  possibly  please 
her  then.  But  of  course  the  letter,  the  showable  letter,  had  to 
be  given  her;  and  Bethesda  did  not  conceal  that  there  was 
one  enclosed.  The  whole  affair  made  Mabel  excessively  angry. 
She  had  been  duped  and  cheated,  and  there  was  no  way  in 
which  she  could  indemnify  herself.  She  could  not  break  off 


CHAP,  in.]  A  SCENE.  "207 

the  correspondence,  because  it  was  already  broken,  and  before 
the  time  came  for  resuming  it  Bethesda  would  be  of  age  and 
independent.  She  tried  to  get  the  girl  to  say  she  would  not 
read  any  of  the  letters  from  Rend  that  came  before  his  answer 
to  her  steamer  letter;  but  all  requests  on  this  head  were 
steadily  refused. 

Still,  Rend  had  taken  his  strongest  advocate  away  in  robbing 
himself  of  Bethesda's  approval.  The  torrent  of  anger  and  abused 
feeling,  which  Mabel  gave  more  force  by  somewhat  striving  to 
control,  found  the  dykes  of  Bethesda's  precious  land  already 
partially  undermined.  But  she  made  a  loyal  defence,  and 
worked  hard  to  draw  the  tide  towards  her  own  delinquencies — 
where  the  land  was  less  precious — instead  of  Rent's.  She  was 
not  very  successful.  Had  not  Mabel  reared  Bethesda  from 
her  cradle  ?  Did  she  not  know  every  tendency  of  the  girl,  as 
though  her  soul  had  been  crystal  ?  Was  it  any  education  of  hers 
that  had  fostered  concealment  and  deceit  ?  Had  she  not  always 
been  frank  as  the  day  herself,  and  brought  up  Beth  to  revere 
frankness  1  She  scorned  the  idea  that  her  niece,  her  darling, 
had  been  most  to  blame  in  this  unworthy  affair  !  She  had 
been  tempted,  been  beguiled  in  the  Eden  of  her  innocence,  and 
Rend,  whom  she,  the  too  fond  Mabel,  had  trusted,  was  the 
odious  serpent  !  Well,  not  quite  that,  perhaps.  Some  sense 
of  fairness  still  slumbering  under  the  tumultuous  swervings  of 
her  nature  turned  uneasily  in  its  sleep,  and  she  smoothed  the 
pillows  by  granting  that  it  might  be  he  was  an  Adam — the 
wicked  Adam  !  who  at  all  costs  must  be  driven  out  of  the  heaven 
of  her  niece's  heart. 

When  Bethesda  emerged  from  that  conversation  she  looked 
exhausted  to  an  alarming  degree.  Margaret  felt  a  smouldering 
fire  of  resentment  against  Mrs.  Trescott  for  treating  Beth  in 
such  a  manner  when  she  was  already  miserable  in  health  ;  but 
she  said  nothing. 

Agatha,  as  usual,  acted.  She  drew  Beth  down  on  the 
lounge,  ordered  some  iced  wine,  and  then,  when  the  two  girls 
were  sipping  and  talking  easily,  she  slipped  away  for  a  moment, 
and  was  gone  an  hour  in  Mrs.  Trescott's  room. 

But  Mabel  was  not  amenable  to  reason  or  prudence.  She 
hated  that  word  !  she  must  be  frank ;  she  would  be  frank  with 
Beth  if  it  cost  her  her  life,  or  any  one's  !  Then,  less  excitedly, 
but  with  a  great  air  of  determination,  she  told  her  sister  that 


208  BETHESDA.  [PAIIT  n. 

this  matter,  that  Beth,  must  be  left  absolutely  to  her.  She 
would  brook  no  interference  in  an  affair  of  which  she  alone 
knew  the  importance,  and  which  she  alone  could  manage.  She 
knew  what  she  was  doing,  and  she  knew,  Dieu  sait  /  what  she 
had  failed  to  do.  She  was  not  going  to  make  that  mistake  again. 

"  It  is  possible,"  here  said  Agatha,  "  that  you  are  trying  to 
repair  past  errors  by  a  greater  one  now " 

"That  only  proves  how  little  you  know  about  it,"  inter- 
rupted Mabel. 

"  I  know  this,  at  least :  Beth  is  not  strong  enough  to  endure 
what  she  is  now  undergoing,  and  yet  she  has  a  character  which 
will  not  yield  to  importunity.  Between  the  two  her  body  will 
be  mangled." 

"  There  are  some  things  of  more  value  than  health  or  life 
even.  And  as  to  importunity,  didn't  Christ  himself  say  that 
we  should  even  importune  God  when  we  wished  what  was 
right?" 

"  He  certainly  in  no  place  told  us  to  coerce  others  to  do  as 
we  thought  right.  That  is  a  doctrine  which  made  the  Inquisition. 
Look  to  it,  Mabel,  that  you  do  not  work  more  harm  than  good. 
If  it  is  a  question  of  honour,  as  I  judge  from  your  words — wait 
a  minute,  please ;  let  me  finish — remember  that  there  are  three 
thousand  miles  between  her  and  Europe.  Moreover,  if  you  are 
afraid  they  will  be  crossed,  leave  Beth  with  Kaleigh  and  me. 
I  will  warrant  you  no  one  can  harm  her  then  ! " 

"No,"  exclaimed  Mabel  quickly;  "no  one  can  do  anything 
for  her  but  I  myself.  It  isn't  enemies  without  but  enemies 
within  that  I  fear.  And  yet  there  is  not  a  thought  of  harm  in 
her !  She  is  deceived  !  deceived  !  I  must  and  will  protect  her. 
You  know  nothing  about  it ;  you  must  leave  me  alone." 

"  She  is  like  her  mother,"  said  Agatha.  "  You  may  con- 
vince her,  or  you  may  kill  her ;  you  never  can  force  her.  And 
she  is  not  in  a  physical  condition  to  bear  argument  now.  Can't 
you  see  that  she  is  worn  out,  just  ready  to  be  ill  ?  If  you 
compel  her  to  endure  such  scenes  as  this  she  has  had  to-day 
you  must  be  prepared  for  disastrous  consequences.  If  you  tem- 
porise you  may  help  both  body  and  mind." 

"  Temporise ! "  cried  Mabel,  starting  up  almost  with  a 
shriek ;  "  temporising  has  been  a  poisoned  dagger  to  her ! 
Every  instant  it  remains  in  her  flesh  it  becomes  more  dangerous ! 
It  shall  be  pulled  out !  Doesn't  the  Bible  say :  '  It  is  better  to 


CHAP,  in.]  PLANS.  209 

go  into  heaven  maimed  than  with  two  hands  to  be  cast  into 
hell-fire  1 '  I  tell  you,  you  know  nothing  about  it.  And  yet 
she  is  as  pure  as  an  angel ! " 

Agatha  saw  the  worse  than  uselessness  of  more  words,  and 
left  her.  She  was  amazed,  even  astounded,  at  the  condition  of 
her  sister,  and  with  every  word  that  had  been  spoken  she  had 
realised  more  the  imperative  need  of  Beth's  being  separated  from 
Mabel  for  a  while.  But  how  could  it  be  accomplished  1  Mabel, 
she  perceived,  was  extremely  jealous,  and  would  allow  no  one  to 
exert  any  influence  counteractive  to  her  own.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  overcome  this  Agatha  clearly  saw.  The  next  best 
thing  would  be  for  them  to  be  altogether,  where  she  could  screen 
Beth  somewhat ;  and,  iijdeed,  as  she  had  long  since  planned,  on 
grounds  of  pleasure  alone. 

The  household  was  not  so  congenial,  with  Mabel  fretting 
against  the  heat  and  laying  Bethesda's  tired  appearance  all  to 
that,  for  plans  to  be  long  delayed. 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  go  to-morrow,"  exclaimed 
Mabel.  "  It  is  blistering  here." 

"  Where  do  you  think  of  going  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  There  are  plenty  of  places.  The 
Catskills,  the  Alleghanies,  the  White  Mountains." 

"  How  would  you  like  the  Rocky  Mountains  ?  It  will  be 
something  new  to  you  both,  and  it  is  well  worth  seeing.  Raleigh 
and  I  are  expecting  to  go  in  a  short  time  now." 

"  Oh,  you  couldn't  induce  me  !  I  abhor  the  west.  The 
east  may  be  endurable ;  I  am  sure  I  hope  so ;  but  deliver  me 
from  this  rough,  ugly  western  life !  And  it  must  be  a  great 
deal  worse  out  so  far." 

Agatha  quietly  explained  the  advantages  and  pleasures  of 
Colorado, — the  grand  scenery,  and  curiosity  of  pioneer  civilisa- 
tion. She  also  remarked  that  the  dry  air  there  would  probably 
invigorate  Beth  as  nothing  else  could  do.  It  would  be  a  com- 
plete change  for  her,  and  would  benefit  Margaret  as  well.  They 
could  make  a  pleasant  family  party  if  they  all  liked  it. 

"  Of  course  it  would  be  charming  for  us  all  to  be  together," 
said  Mabel;  "but,"  conclusively,  "you  see  I  hate  the  west. 
Why  don't  you  come  with  us  1  There  is  fishing  and  hunting 
east,  no  doubt." 

"  Raleigh  has  found  that  there  is  none  worth  seeking,"  in- 
terposed Agatha,  studying  her  sister  keenly. 

P 

I 


210  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Mabel,  with  a  toss  of  her  head,  "  I  don't 
know  why  we  should  all  go  where  it  will  best  suit  one  man. 
It  hasn't  been  my  habit  to  let  others  dictate  my  actions,  and, 
for  my  part,  I  had  rather  be  alone  than  not  go  east." 

"  You  certainly  have  a  great  love  of  places,"  remarked 
Agatha,  with  controlled  satire.  "  But  how  about  the  health 
question  1  Physicians  have  told  me  repeatedly  that  it  would  be 
excellent  for  Margaret,  and  probably  it  would  be  the  best  thing 
to  be  done  for  Beth." 

"  Oh,  they  are  not  in  the  least  alike.  I  have  heard,  too, 
that  rare  air  is  very  dangerous  for  heart  troubles.  I  don't  think 
it  would  be  right  at  all  to  risk  it.  I  never  would  consent 
to  it." 

She  seemed  to  consider  the  matter  qiu'te  settled  by  this, 
but  Agatha  had  no  thought  of  yielding  to  so  flimsy  a  reason. 

"  Have  her  heart  examined  and  leave  it  to  the  physician," 
she  said,  a  trifle  shortly. 

"  She  never  would  consent  to  that,  and  if  she  did,  I  have 
no  confidence  in  physicians.  They  are  miserably  ignorant." 

"  It  is  possible,  however,  that  they  may  know  more  than 
we,  since  they  devote  their  lives  to  the  study  of  medicine," 
replied  Agatha,  and  let  the  subject  drop. 

Later  she  called  Bethesda  aside  and  asked  her  if  she  would 
object  to  having  her  heart  examined.  Beth  shrank  from  it, 
and  Agatha  explained  her  reasons. 

"  Oh,  if  you  think  Margaret  needs  Colorado,  let  us  go  with- 
out minding  me,"  said  Bethesda  eagerly. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  as  good  for  you  as  for  Margaret  if 
your  heart  is  sound ;  but,  dear,  I  don't  wish  you  to  run  any 
risk." 

"  I  confess  I  would  rather  not  know  the  state  of  my  heart," 
said  Bethesda  at  last. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because — well,  it  has  troubled  me  some  of  late,  and " 

"  That  is  sufficient  reason  in  itself,  then,  why  you  should 
have  it  examined.  Be  reasonable,  dear.  I  could  always  appeal 
with  confidence  to  your  reason  when  you  were  a  child.  If  you 
think  about  it  calmly  you  will  see  that  you  should  have  all  the 
light  you  can.  It  is  never  well  to  hide  our  eyes  for  fear  of  what 
we  may  see,  nor  did  it  ever  use  to  be  your  way." 

Bethesda  was  "  reasonable,"  and  an  hour  later — Mrs.  Stan- 


CHAP,  in.]  A  PHYSICIAN'S  DECREE.  211 

hope  was  always  expeditious — a  physician  somewhat  celebrated 
for  his  treatment  of  heart  troubles  appeared.  He  inquired 
minutely  into  Miss  Hamilton's  heredity,  looked  grave  on  hearing 
of  the  circumstances  of  her  mother's  death,  made  his  examina- 
tion, and  studied  on  the  case. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  .took  him  into  the  next  room  to  hear  his 
opinion,  and  Bethesda  was  left  palpitating  more  with  hope  than 
fear.  Heart  disease  !  that  would  mean  that  any  sudden  shock 
or  long  strain  would  kill  her.  Life  need  not  be  prolonged 
beyond  the  loss  of  hope  and  love.  In  case  of  the  worst,  death 
would  relieve  her. 

They  returned. 

"Have  I  heart  disease1?"  asked  Bethesda,  looking  up  in 
the  physician's  face  with  a  peculiarly  bright  smile.  It  was  as 
if  she  had  asked  :  Can  I  really  be  happy  soon  ? 

He  stood  and  looked  down  at  her  half  a  minute  before  he 
answered. 

"No,"  he  said  then  slowly,  and  he  saw  her  face  fall.  "No, 
you  have  not  heart  disease,  but  you  have  a  functional  disorder 
which  will  terminate  in  organic  trouble  if  you  are  not  extremely 
careful.  You  know  neither  one  nor  the  other  means  death. 
You  should  understand  clearly  that  heart  disease  means  suffer- 
ing much  more  frequently  than  it  does  death.  If  you  are  like 
your  aunt  here,  that  will  make  it  more  emphatic  to  you  when  I 
say  you  must  avoid  all  strong  emotions  and  all  excitement. 
You  must  lead  a  lazy  life,  think  little,  take  tonics,  and  live  in 
the  open  air.  If  you  do  this  you  will  perhaps  escape  the  disease." 

She  glanced  at  him,  and  away,  with  an  incredulous  smile 
trembling  around  her  sad  lips.  To  tell  her  she  must  avoid 
emotion,  excitement,  thought,  and  in  her  present  circumstances  ! 
He  read  her  better  than  she  guessed,  however,  and  he  appre- 
ciated the  hopelessness  of  that  smile. 

"And  you  said  about  Colorado?"  suggested  Mrs.  Stanhope. 

"  She  had  better  try  no  experiments.  It  might  help  and 
might  injure  her ;  I  would  not  undertake  to  say  which.  I 
should  advise  her  going  to  the  seashore,  or  not  very  high  among 
the  White  Mountains." 

He  turned  to  bow  profoundly  as  he  bade  them  good-morning, 
and  gave  another  keen  glance  at  his  patient.  She  interested 
him  as  a  curiosity.  The  fortitude  and  mobility  that  mingled 
in  her  face  indicated  how  foolish  his  advice  must  seem  to  her. 


212  BETIIESDA.  [I-AIIT  II. 

He  knew  it  was  foolish  too,  and  yet  it  was  true.  Probably  if 
he  ever  saw  her  again,  it  would  be  in  the  clutches  of  an  incur- 
able agony. 

So  Mrs.  Trescott  had  it  her  own  way.  Mrs.  Stanhope  was 
seriously  concerned  for  Beth,  but  did  not  see  her  way  to  doing 
anything  for  her  at  present.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  be  inactive, 
and  to  this  was  added  the  shock  of  finding  Mabel  insensible 
to  old  ties,  when  her  own  heart  had  ached  for  the  far-away 
sister,  her  nearest  relative.  Domestic  love  made  the  very  warp 
of  her  nature,  and  each  thread  had  to  be  pulled  out  with  per- 
sistent effort  before  she  could  or  would  relinquish  the  band  of 
rich  colour  each  loved  person  wove  into  her  life.  She  had  not 
now  the  slightest  intention  of  giving  up  her  sister,  but  would 
patiently  wait  and  work — waiting  always  meant  working  with 
her — to  the  end  of  a  complete  recovery. 

Mabel  herself  was  much  shocked  in  discovering  Beth's  criti- 
cal condition.  Mrs.  Stanhope  told  her  quite  plainly,  not  sparing 
the  details  and  prognosis.  She  wished  to  impress  Mabel  with 
the  necessity  of  avoiding  these  exciting  discussions,  and  Mabel 
was  quite  sufficiently  impressed,  for  the  time  at  least.  She 
went  to  Beth,  and  put  her  arms  about  her,  and  begged  her  to 
take  care  of  herself,  to  spare  herself  these  wearing  questions,  to 
put  them  all  away  by  simply  agreeing  to  the  year's  silence,  and 
then  waiting  until  she  was  stronger  before  she  thought  them 
out.  But  when  she  found  Bethesda  unshaken  in  her  resolution 
to  guide  her  own  soul,  to  do  as  she  thought  right,  come  what 
might,  then  Mabel  asked  herself  how  she  was  to  do  anything 
when  Beth  would  not  consent?  How  could  she  shield  her 
niece  from  bodily  terrors  when  her  soul  was  in  the  clutches  of 
evil,  and  she  alone  could  loosen  the  grasp  ? 

They  remained  in  S but  a  few  days  longer,  and  then 

went  over  the  long  dusty  road  east  again.  It  was  a  silly  thing, 
in  Mabel's  opinion,  their  ever  having  gone  west.  Business 
could  liave  been  attended  to  some  other  time  just  as  well,  and 
this  was  an  unnecessary  expense  and  fatigue.  As  to  pleasure, 
what  pleasure  could  there  be  in  going  back  and  forth  over  this 
rough  railroad,  through  the  scorching  land  ? 

Margaret  was  silent  when  such  things  were  said,  and  Beth- 
esda was  too  weary  to  argue,  nor  would  it  have  done  any  good 
if  she  had.  To  fight  with  a  windmill  was  nothing  to  fighting 
with  Mrs.  Trcscott's  variable  opinions. 


CHAP,  in.]  NECESSITY  OF  SOLITUDE.  213 

Moreover,  Bethesda's  whole  strength  was  strained  in  solving 
the  questions  daily,  hourly,  thrust  in  on  her  attention.  It  was 
an  appalling  change  that  had  come  to  her.  The  complete  differ- 
ence in  mental  and  moral  atmosphere  between  the  old  world 
and  the  new,  altered  every  glimpse  of  every  fact  that  Bethesda 
saw.  Her  position  was  changed,  and  her  past  and  present  and 
future  had  all  fallen  into  chaos  together.  If  the  central  point 
of  the  universe  were  suddenly  removed  to  its  outer  circumference, 
the  stars  and  planets  would  not  fly  more  wildly  through  space 
than  did  the  shattered  thoughts  of  Bethesda's  mental  system. 

Mrs.  Trescott  also  felt  it,  and  the  confusion  it  engendered 
was  proved  by  her  saying  to  Beth  once  : 

"  I  believe  you  never  could  have  endured  this  coming  to 
America  and  its  influences  if  I  had  not  known.  You  would 
have  had  brain  fever ;  there  is  no  doubt  of  it." 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Bethesda;  nor  did  she  at  any 
time.  Her  aunt's  knowledge  of  the  affair  only  thwarted  and 
exhausted  her;  more  within  even  than  without.  Had  Mrs. 
Trescott  not  known  more  than  when  Rene'  left  them,  it  doubtless 
would  have  been  hard, — the  struggle,  the  awakening,  would  in- 
evitably have  come, — but  it  would  have  been  less  hard  for 
Bethesda  than  now,  when  she  felt  her  aunt's  incessant  pushing 
weight  behind  her,  and  the  watching  that  made  each  throe 
observed,  and  computed  as  so  much  done  or  undone.  She 
sometimes  felt  it  to  be  absolutely  unbearable,  and  she  would 
have  given  the  world  for  a  little  privacy,  for  an  instant  blank 
of  scrutinising  eyes.  To  be  alone  at  times  is  a  vital  necessity 
to  those  in  great  trouble.  There  are  sacred  moments  when  the 
dearest  cannot  intrude  without  causing  pain,  and  they  often  are 
the  hours  of  travail  when  the  priceless  gift  of  peace  is  born. 

So  Bethesda,  with  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  avoided 
being  alone  with  her  aunt,  and  this  was  easier  to  do  since  Mar- 
garet accompanied  them  for  their  summer  east,  and  the  sisters 
of  course  were  almost  constantly  together.  Margaret  was  taking 
now  the  undisputed  place  of  a  loved  child  to  Bethesda.  She 
was  really  the  elder,  and  yet  Beth  was  always  the  one  to  be 
addressed  as  Miss  Hamilton,  and  given,  without  hesitation,  the 
position  of  eldest. 

There  was  an  innocence  and  simplicity  about  Margaret  which 
was  essentially  childlike,  and  her  petite  figure  and  extreme  fair- 
ness aided  the  appearance  of  youth.  Her  hair  was  like  a  tangle 


214  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

of  sunbeams,  not  golden,  but  recalling  the  morning  light  while 
the  shadows  are  yet  long :  her  delicately -finished  eyebrows 
arched  over  "  myrtle-eyes,"  as  Bethesda  called  them,  which  were 
capable  of  much  passion,  as  well  as  a  steely  glitter  when  dis- 
pleased. Generally,  however,  she  was  gentle  and  sweet.  She 
reminded  one,  indeed,  of  a  virgin  by  Raphael,  and  possessed  the 
mystic  devotion  and  absorption  in  higher  things  which,  com- 
bined with  purity,  may  have  been  the  traits  of  Mary. 

She  clung  to  Bethesda  as  to  one  for  whom  alone  life  was 
worth  living,  and  yet  held  her  in  a  large  enough  embrace  for 
her  to  be  able  to  turn  freely  in  it :  even  to  turn  away  at  times, 
and  yet,  upon  return,  to  find  the  same  warm  light  in  the  tender 
eyes.  But  this  capacity  for  devotion  only  balanced  an  inevit- 
ability of  judgment  which  might  otherwise  have  been  stern, 
perhaps  merciless.  Had  any  one  done  wrong,  whether  Margaret 
loved  much  or  little,  the  love  she  had  given  would  swiftly  return 
into  her  own  bosom,  although  it  might  force  life  out  in  the  pro- 
cess. An  absolute  incapacity  for  worshipping  a  fallen  idol  made 
her  look  upon  another  who  did  so  with  nothing  more  pitiful  than 
a  stare  of  amazement.  Yet  if  one  did  wrong,  and  repented  in 
act,  her  forgiveness  would  be  full  and  obliterating,  and  one 
would  have  considered  the  effort  made  to  obtain  it  well  spent. 
She  would  help,  she  would  try  to  help,  neither  one  nor  the 
other  of  these  instincts.  Her  whole  character  was  so  built  on 
this  fatality  of  cause  and  effect  that  to  conceive  anything  else  in 
herself  was  impossible, — more,  indifferent  to  her.  Worth  and 
love  went  together  with  her ;  reciprocation  would  have  been  of 
little  consequence,  so  that  her  ideal  remained  intact.  That 
fallen,  and  the  pride  which  was  inherent  in  her  would  have 
lifted  her  above  all  possibility  of  kneeling  in  the  dust  to  pick  up 
and  piece  together  the  fragments,  and  fancy  it  was  as  perfect  as 
before.  A  dent  in  the  sword  of  life  was  always  a  dent  to  her  ; 
there  was  no  compromise  or  illusion  about  that ;  but  it  might 
be  rendered  ignoble  or  glorious  as  defeat  or  victory  followed.  If 
defeat,  the  sword  was  broken,  and  useless  to  her ;  if  victory,  she 
would  have  been  capable  of  sheathing  it  in  her  own  heart,  could 
such  a  deed  protect  it  from  injury. 

And  this  was  the  woman  who  now  nestled  close  to  Beth- 
esda's  side,  and  encompassed  her  with  an  unobtrusive  tenderness. 
Her  unsuspicious  exterior. and  intelligent  confidence  tranquil- 
ised  Bethesda  unspeakably,  and  she  felt  a  great  gratitude 


CHAi'.  in.]  RETROSPECTIONS.  215 

growing  in  her  heart  which  made  her  little  sister  hourly  more 
precious. 

The  three  left  New  York  for  the  White  Mountains  on  a 
shady  afternoon  in  midsummer.  As  the  hills  appeared,  and 
seemed  to  increase  in  height,  they  were  seen  through  a  shimmer 
of  opal,  that  rendered  their  blue  tints  soft  and  ethereal. 

Mabel  was  in  raptures. 

"  Just  to  be  east  again  is  a  joy  to  me  !  And  look  at  those 
hills ;  why,  one  could  almost  fancy  we  were  going  to  see  the 
Italian  lakes  !  Alas  !  for  la  bella  Italia !" 

"It  is  hardly  like  Italy,"  said  Bethesda.  "  One  never  sees 
the  violets,  purples,  and  amethystine  shades  in  America.  Here 
it  is  a  deep,  true,  perfect  blue.  It  is  like  a  clarion  note  that 
never  changes  into  any  other,  but  only  grows  surer  and  fuller 
as  it  increases." 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  liked  it  better,"  said  Margaret.  She 
herself  longed  for  Italy. 

"No,  not  better,"  answered  Bethesda  slowly.  "There  is 
something  steadfast  and  reliant  about  it,  but  the  tenderness  and 
loveliness  of  Italy  does  not  belong  to  us.  Browning  would  call 
this,  I  suppose,  a  masculine  land,  and  Italy  feminine.  I  think 
Mrs.  Randleth  described  the  difference  better,  when  she  said 
that  Italy  was  like  a  lover  and  England  like  a  husband." 

"  What  queer  fancies  that  woman  had  !"  exclaimed  Mabel. 

"Poetic  ones,  I  should  say,"  returned  Margaret,  with  interest. 
"  Tell  me  more  about  her." 

"  If  you  once  get  Beth  on  that  subject,  you  will  never  get 
her  off ! "  said  Mabel.  "  I'll  leave  ! " 

In  spite  of  this  remark,  and  perhaps  because  of  Mrs.  Trescott's 
move  to  the  other  side  of  the  car,  and  her  novel,  Margaret  suc- 
ceeded in  leading  Bethesda  into  a  frank  description  of  her  friend, 
and,  almost  before  she  was  aware,  Beth  found  herself  talking 
with  ease  of  all  her  friends,  and  frequently  mentioning  M. 
d'Isten. 

"What  is  he  like?"  asked  Margaret  at  last.  "You  have 
spoken  very  little  of  him,  yet  he  was  quite  intimate  apparently." 

"  Yes,  he  was  a  warm  friend  of  both  auntie's  and  mine," 
replied  Bethesda,  commanding  her  voice. 

"  Aunt  Mabel  does  not  speak  of  him  much." 

"  No ;  they  had  a  misunderstanding  just  at  the  last,  but  I 
hope  it  will  be  satisfactorily  explained." 


216  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

"  You  like  him  very  much,  then  ?" 

"I  admire  him,  and  honour  him,"  replied  Bethesda,  -with  a 
proud  steadiness. 

"Tell  me  about  him;  what  kind  of  a  man  is  he?"  said 
Margaret  simply,  and  Bethesda  chose  tempered  words,  and 
wandered  back  through  the  flowery  fields  of  her  life  before  the 
denouement,  hand-in-hand  with  this  pure-hearted  sister. 

It  has  been  told  us  by  a  man  who  knew  the  human  soul 
marvellously  well,  that  to  remember  happiness  in  grief  is  our 
greatest  misery,  but  there  do  come  hours  when  what  made  the 
past  radiant  is  lost  for  ever,  and  yet  its  remembrance  is  our 
sole  light ;  as,  when  the  sun  is  set,  its  reflection  on  the  moon 
is  all  that  relieves  us  from  black  darkness.  Bethesda  found 
herself  in  this  moonlit  land  to-day,  and  it  was  a  sweet,  fine 
pleasure  to  her.  It  seemed  to  lift  the  stigma  of  confusion  and 
possible  dishonour  off  from  her  soul,  in  returning  thus  to  those 
surely  innocent  hours  in  Florence,  in  their  dear  Italy. 

As  she  talked,  the  sunset  tinged  rosily  the  mist  which  still 
lingered  in  the  atmosphere,  gathering  and  dissolving  in  ever- 
varied  forms  and  colours.  The  wooded  slopes,  the  towering 
crags,  the  lofty  peaks,  were  all  suffused  by  this  transparent 
blush,  which  came  and  went  with  a  shy  waywardness,  of  itself 
indescribably  lovely.  On  every  side  soft  clouds  clung  with 
white  arms  to  the  stalwart  necks  of  the  rocks,  or  lay  trembling 
on  the  bosom  of  the  hills.  Little  streams  rushed  down  im- 
petuously to  mingle  with  the  calmer  river,  while  above  arched 
the  heavens,  luminous  with  amber  and  gold,  amidst  which  shone 
a  brighter  point,  the  evening  star. 

The  dreamy  monologue  melted  into  this  landscape  and 
became  a  part  of  it,  as  silence  fell  at  last.  Margaret  was  im- 
pressed with  she  knew  not  what  unselfish  sadness,  and  Bethesda 
felt  refreshed  and  sweetened  by  the  aspect  of  these  everlasting 
hills  clad  in  the  colours  of  love  and  truth. 


CHAP,  iv.]  CHARACTER  ALONE  DIVIDES.  217 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  Growth  is  the  condition  of  love,  as  it  is  of  life." 

"In  things  evil  there  is  a  soul  of  goodness,  and  reformation  consists, 
not  in  annihilating  the  evil  thing,  but  in  developing  that  soul  of  goodness 
within  it,  which  gives  it  life  and  vigour,  and  in  directing  it  to  the  good 
which  it  erringly  seeks. " — SIMPSON'S  Philosophy  of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets. 

THE  summer  passed  in  alternations  of  conflict,  victory,  and 
despair.  Every  letter  of  Renews,  written  before  he  could  receive 
hers,  marked  an  era ;  for  Bethesda's  was  one  of  those  natures 
"  whose  roots  strike  deep,  clear  their  own  way,  and  win  the 
light  by  growing."  She  was  not  a  person  who  could  rest  with 
an  unsolved  doubt,  implying  wrong  action,  in  her  mind.  It 
was  an  ever-present  goad  to  her;  it  pricked  her  on  to  inde- 
fatigable thought  and  ceaseless  searching.  Sometimes  she 
tottered  under  the  weight  she  carried,  and  yearned  for  some 
sure  support  until  she  thought  her  soul  would  die  for  the  want 
of  it.  There  must  be  something  outside  and  beyond  herself,  or 
Rene",  or  her  aunt,"  or  any  one,  and  this  must  be — what  else 
could  it  be1? — the  right. 

And  then  a  vivid  remembrance  would  come  to  her  of  how 
on  shipboard  Rene'  had  said,  with  long  pauses  between  each 
phrase,  and  a  strange  foresight  in  his  eyes : 

"My  Esda  will  trust  me  always;  if  I  am  old, — or  ugly, — 
or  ill, — or  unhappy, — or  wicked — 

"  No,"  she  had  interrupted,  "  not  that." 

"  Not  that,  then,"  he  repeated,  yet  hardly  seeming  to  notice 
the  interruption,  "or  poor, — or  cross, — or  distant, — she  will 
always,  always  trust  me." 

Later,  he  had  said  that  it  hurt  him  at  first  to  think  she 
would  not  trust  herself  to  him  were  he  wicked,  that  her  affec- 
tion would  not  be  inalienable  under  no  matter  what  circum- 
stances ;  but  now  he  knew  she  was  right ;  he  must  be  always 
worthy. 

"  Otherwise  you  would  not  be  yourself,"  she  had  said. 
"  You  would  not  be  the  noble  Rene'  I  haAre  known,  and  I  could 
not  transfer  my  confidence  from  the  real  You  to  that  unknown 
one." 

The  same,  she  thought  now,  would  apply  to  herself.     They 


218  BETHESUA.  [PART  n. 

would  each  be  worthy,  no  matter  what  the  cost.  She  must 
not  desert  him  a  moment.  If  she  were  unsatisfied,  she  must 
think  what  she  would  have  him  do,  so  as  to  be  able  to  ade- 
quately help  him  when  the  time  came. 

Presently  this  earnest  thought  brought  its  sure  result. 
The  blindness  fell  from  her  eyes  as  a  veil  that  is  dropped.  One 
thing  was  setttled :  Rend  must  belong  all  to  Louise.  Bethesda 
could  only  claim  him,  or  write  to  him  as  a  friend,  or  as  a  co- 
labourer.  Nothing  more  could  be  thought  of.  This  was  one 
rock  under  her  feet. 

And  it  remained  a  solid  rock  in  spite  of  the  wild  waves  of 
passion  which  surged  over  her  at  night,  when  she  felt  the 
presence  of  Rend  near  her,  and  in  trouble.  She  would  have 
given  a  whole  life  of  happiness  for  the  power  to  annihilate 
time  and  space,  and  comfort  him  then.  But  the  doubly -woven 
curtain  hung  stiff  between  him  and  her,  and  she  could  only  beat 
herself  against  the  unyielding  folds  with  impotent  despair. 

Then  there  came  the  consoling  thought  that  the  answer  to 
her  letter  was  yet  to  come.  He  would  show  himself  strong  in 
that,  and  support  her.  And  finally  one  rainy  day,  suddenly 
illumined,  it  came  !  The  last ! 

It  was  very  long ;  in  fact  a  diary,  as  Bethesda  had  ex- 
pected. Perhaps  in  other  things  her  suppositions  as  to  what 
its  contents  would  be  had  not  been  wrong ;  but  still  it  threw 
her  on  to  her  own  feet  as  nothing  else  had  done. 

She  saw  that  she  could  not  depend  on  him  to  help  her ;  all 
the  strength  of  denial  must  come  from  her;  all  the  earnest 
seeking  and  truth-compelling  thought.  He  would  follow  where 
she  led ;  this  was  the  utmost  she  could  expect  of  him  now. 
They  could  no  longer  judge  each  by  the  other.  There  was  one 
side  of  her  nature  to  which  she  must  recognise  that  he  did  not 
respond.  Where  was  it,  she  asked  herself  quickly,  that  she  did 
not  answer  him  1 

However,  the  writing  under  the  same  dates  in  their  journals 
proved  their  difference.  On  one  day  she  wrote  that  she  must 
do  her  utmost  to  reinstate  him  in  his  highest  self  esteem  ;  while 
he,  far  from  his  self-esteem  having  been  lowered  by  their  inter- 
course, wrote  : — "  Thy  glance  ennobles  me.  Thou  personifiest 
my  duty,  my  honour,  my  conscience,  and  something  even  more 
than  these.  Thou  raisest  me  above  myself.  If  thou  shouldst 
abandon  me,  what  would  I  become  1" 


CTiAi'.  iv.]  DIFFERENCES.  219 

When  she  felt  an  icy  hand  on  her  heart  in  seeing  the  first 
effect  of  her  letter  was  dead  silence,  his  heart  was  burning 
within  him,  and  he  cried :  "  There  is  no  law,  no  distance,  no 
malignity  capable  of  sundering  us  ! " 

What  gave  her  confidence  in  being  able  to  help  him  to  see 
the  right  and  do  it  were  such  sentences  as  these  :  "  If  I  leave 
thee,  it  would  be  replacing  joy  by  suffering ;  I  acknowledge  I 
have  not  the  courage  except  as  thou  desirest  it."  And  again  : 
"  I  resign  myself  to  my  fate,  whatsoever  it  may  be,  if  Bethesda 
imposes  it  upon  me.  Any  other  hand  I  defy  !  " 

She  must  go  alone  from  the  seductive  waves,  must  set  her 
feet  firmly  on  the  shore,  and  thence  help  him.  She  would  save 
him  if  he  were  passive,  which  she  had  confidence  he  would  be. 
Perhaps,  later,  he  might  even  help  her.  She  took  up  the  double 
burden  without  regret,  but  with  a  yearning  patience,  and  a  lone- 
liness she  had  never  felt  so  deeply  before.  But  she  was  resolute. 
It  should  be  her  life's  work  to  win  him  to  the  sight  of  truth  and 
duty.  Through  her  he  had  fallen  ;  if  through  her  he  could  gain 
a  higher  standpoint,  by  force  of  having  met  and  conquered  a 
great  temptation,  she  would  feel  her  life  well  spent.  If  he 
failed  ? — She  could  never  forgive  herself. 

In  the  evening  of  the  day  the  letter  came,  parts  of  which 
Bethesda  had  read  to  her  aunt,  through  which  she  learned  that 
her  request  had  been  refused,  Mrs.  Trescott  appeared  in  a 
black  dress,  unrelieved  by  any  colour,  and  took  occasion  to  say 
to  Beth  : 

"  This  is  the  death  ;  there  only  remains  now  the  funeral." 

Bethesda  drew  herself  up  proudly,  with  a  flash  of  disdain  for 
her  only  reply.  In  pushing  him  oft  thus  cruelly  Mabel  had  but 
thrust  him  closer  to  Bethesda,  and  : 

"  I  shall  not  desert  him,"  she  told  herself. 

"  Come  into  my  room,"  said  Mrs.  Trescott  sharply,  maddened 
by  that  expression  on  her  niece's  face.  "  I  see  you  approve  of 
that  cowardly,  sneaking  letter  ! "  she  burst  out,  as  soon  as  the 
door  was  closed ;  but  Bethesda  shut  down  the  flood-gates  right 
there,  standing  regally  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment. 

"Aunt  Mabel,"  she  said,  "I  shall  not  listen  to  invectives 
against  any  one ;  certainly  not  against  Rene'.  If  you  have 
nothing  else  to  say,  I  shall  ask  you  to  excuse  me." 

"  Oh,  it's  very  fine  for  you  to  be  so  proud  with  me  !  But 
sit  down ;  I  must  talk  to  you.  Don't  you  see,  can't  you  see, 


220  BETHESDA.  [PAKT  n. 

that  Rene*  hasn't  one  impulse  of  veracity,  not  one  moment  of 
remorse  for  having  spoiled  your  life " 

"  He  has  not  spoiled  it." 

"  I  say  he  has  !  Every  one  notices  it — notices  how  much 
you  are  changed ;  I  notice  it  more  than  all.  You  don't  care  for 
me  a  quarter,  no,  not  a  tenth  part  as  much  as  you  did,  and  it  is 
all  because  of  Rene' ;  while  I  lie  awake  nights,  and  tire  myself  to 
death  to  think  out  an  escape  from  the  dangers  around  your  path." 

"  I  am  sorry." 

Mabel  came  and  knelt  down  beside  Bethesda,  and  put  her 
arms  around  the  girl's  waist. 

"  Darling,"  she  pleaded,  "  you  are  being  worn  out  with  this 
struggle,  and  a  gulf  is  widening  between  you  and  me.  I  can't 
bear  it.  I  would  be  so  glad  to  suffer  all  for  you,  but  I  cannot. 
You  will  not  even  let  yourself  be  guided  by  me.  I  want  to  help 
you  more  than  you  can  know.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  meet 
your  mother  in  heaven  with  this  load  upon  my  soul " 

"  It  is  no  fault  of  yours,"  exclaimed  Beth. 

"  Yes,  it  is  ;  partially  at  least.  I  should  not  have  trusted 
either  of  you.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  I  could  see  clearer 
than  you.  I  ought  to  have  had  more  confidence  in  myself.  I 
have  helped  to  undo  you,  and  I  have  now  a  duty  I  owe  to  myself 
to  reinstate  you.  Think  of  me  a  little,  Beth.  Don't  let  all 
your  sympathy  go  out  towards  him  •  I  am  suffering  too." 

"  Dear  auntie  ! "  murmured  Bethesda.  But  her  position 
was  now  unendurable.  She  loosened  her  aunt's  clasp,  and  rose 
and  walked  away.  If  only  she  could  answer,  alone,  for  her  own 
soul !  No  one  could  take  that  responsibility  from  her  in  any 
case,  and  it  would  be  so  much  easier  if  she  could  but  fight  it 
out  her  own  way. 

But  for  Mabel  Trescott,  with  her  imperial  love  of  domina- 
tion, it  was  simply  impossible  for  her  to  leave  her  niece  free. 
It  was  said  of  Thomas  Jefferson  that  "  he  loved  his  country,  and 
would  have  died  to  save  it ;  that  is,  to  convert  it  permanently  to  his 
way  of  thinking."  A  better  description  could  not  be  given  of 
Mabel  Trescott  at  this  time.  If  Beth  would  only  lie  passive  in 
her  hands,  and  let  her  present  and  future  be  determined  for 
her,  by  one  who  considered  her  own  judgment  absolutely  correct, 
Mabel  thought  she  could  have  died  content.  But,  as  it  was, 
an  impassable  gulf  seemed  to  yawn  wider  and  wider  between 
them,  a  sight  which  made  the  woman,  jealous  of  both  affection 


CHAP,  iv.]  ME11KIMENT  NOT  A  SOLID  DIET.  221 

and  power,  frantic  in  her  efforts  to  have  it  close.  But  her 
endeavours  were  all  in  the  wrong  direction ;  nothing  but  the 
sacrifice  of  self  could  effect  it,  and  this  was  something  of  which 
she  had  never  thought. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  a  long  rain  set  in  ;  the  house  was 
empty  and  bleak,  and  Mrs.  Trescott  tired  of  her  inactivity,  so 
she  decided  to  go  to  New  York  immediately.  It  had  been 
already  agreed  upon  that  this  should  be  their  future  residence, 
the  girls  acquiescing  in  what  their  aunt  urged,  as  any  city, 
except  S ,  was  indifferent  to  them.  So  they  left  the  moun- 
tains, and  Bethesda  found  herself,  one  late  September  day, 
in  the  port  whence  steamers  sailed  direct  for  France,  and  the 
monotonous  billows  were  all  that  divided  him  from  her. — All  1 
There  was  a  distance  far  more  insuperable  than  any  space  which 
now  separated  them,  and  she  was  beginning  to  know  it. 

Early  in  November  they  were  well  settled  in  their  new 
home,  and  friends  were  finding  them  out,  and  were  empressis 
in  their  attentions.  But  no  one  of  the  three  found  the  society 
altogether  congenial.  Mrs.  Trescott  was  very  critical.  Every 
one  was  too  "  shoppy,"  and  busied  about  matters  in  which  she 
could  take  no  interest,  to  please  her  taste.  Persons  who  were 
merry  and  promised  "a  good  time,"  however,  were  vigorously 
cultivated,  so  that  she  soon  became  the  centre  of  a  circle  of 
boisterous  young  people  who  made  her  laugh,  but  could  give 
her  no  more  substantial  food  ;  and  this  was  not  of  a  quality  to 
satisfy  any  woman  of  thirty-five. 

Margaret  often  found  herself  longing  for  the  cultured  and 
earnest  persons  who  surrounded  Mrs.  Stanhope ;  a  suggestive 
company  which  gave  one  thoughts  that  remained  long  after  the 
echo  of  voices  had  ceased.  It  would  take  years  before  she  and 
Bethesda  could  collect  about  them  those  who  would  be  of  a  class 
at  all  similar  to  the  friends  of  fifteen  years'  standing,  who 
gathered  to  Aunt  Agatha  as  their  lamp  of  wisdom.  Indeed, 
not  being  of  a  buoyant  disposition,  she  thought  the  possibility 
hopeless  of  achievement. 

Bethesda  meantime  was  in  too  listless  an  outward  state,  and 
of  too  concentrated  an  excitement  within,  to  care  much  what  went 
on  about  her.  Trouble  often  makes  persons  selfish,  and  this  Beth- 
esda undeniably  was  during  these  autumn  months.  She  had, 
it  may  be,  considerable  excuse,  but  selfishness  is  a  fault  which 
can  never  be  excused.  She  tried  to  take  her  part  in  the  duties 


222  BETHESDA.  [PAUT  n. 

of  the  house,  aiding  Margaret  in  the  housekeeping,  which  Mabel 
did  not  care  to  assume  ;  and  to  her  sister  at  least  she  was 
always  tender.  But  she  was  careless  of  her  physical  welfare,  and 
was  so  wrapped  in  the  clouds  of  smoke  that  constantly  ascended 
from  the  battlefield,  where  she  fought  day  and  night,  that  she 
saw  little  of  what  was  going  on  outside. 

Her  increasing  weakness,  pallor,  and  disability  caused  her 
sister  great  distress,  and  Mrs.  Trescott  but  little  less.  Finally 
Margaret  wrote  to  Aunt  Agatha  desperately,  and  with  prompti- 
tude Mrs.  Stanhope  telegraphed  and  wrote  for  Bethesda  to  come 
to  her,  alone.  She  was  not  one  to  let  a  creature  fade  away 
without  vigorous  trial  of  various  methods  of  cure. 

Bethesda  went,  but  reluctantly.  Her  body  was  so  heavy 
now,  and  her  mind  so  full,  that  she  would  have  preferred  re- 
maining still  to  any  change,  however  agreeable.  Mrs.  Stanhope 
had,  however,  understood  how  to  so  express  her  loneliness  with- 
out Margaret,  and  her  desire  to  visit  with  Beth,  that,  encouraged 
by  Margaret,  she  finally  yielded  ;  and  the  middle  of  November, 
accompanied  only  by  Marcot,  found  her  received  with  the  ten- 
derest  cordiality  in  S . 

"  This  is  the  recruiting  station,"  said  Mr.  Stanhope  gaily, 
offering  her  his  arm  to  escort  her  to  breakfast.  "  I  think  my 
wife  would  be  perfectly  happy  if  she  had  the  control  of  a 
hospital,  and  a  limitless  purse  to  do  what  she  chose  for  them. 
You  couldn't  have  relieved  her  loneliness,  nor  filled  her  heart 
better  than  by  coming  here  to  be  coaxed  into  health ; — and  you 
know  what  a  gratification  it  will  be  to  us  all  when  she  succeeds." 

"  Thank  you,"  murmured  Bethesda.  She  felt  almost  guilty 
under  this  solicitous  affection ;  for,  did  she  wish  to  recover  1 

The  change  in  her  since  the  summer  affected  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stanhope  powerfully.  He  found  himself  speculating  upon 
the  features,  thin  with  conflict,  and  rigorous  at  times  with  self- 
control,  and  felt  when  the  evening  was  over  as  if  some  far-away 
heroine  had  been  telling  him  the  incidents  of  her  daily  life  and 
listening  with  courteous  attention  to  his  remarks,  while  really 
living  only  in  the  tragedy  which  made  her  for  ever  memorable. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  devoted  the  first  week  to  close,  if  unobtrusive 
study  of  her  patient,  doing  a  hundred  things  for  her  restoration 
meanwhile,  from  massage  to  providing  a  table  so  daintily  nour- 
ishing that  it  was,  as  Raleigh  quoted  one  day,  "As  if  Juno  had 
been  sick,  and  she  her  dieter." 


CHAP,  v.]         GOETHE'S  ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES.  223 

Mentally  she  gave  her  no  less  stimulating  food.  Early  in 
her  visit  she  put  into  the  girl's  hands  Goethe's  Elective  Affinities. 

"  See  what  you  can  make  out  of  it,"  she  said.  "  Many 
persons  consider  it  immoral,  and  yet  Goethe  asserted  that  it 
was  the  only  book  he  ever  wrote  with  a  deliberate  moral  aim." 

Bethesda  was  soon  absorbed  in  it,  finding  it  marvellously 
suited  to  her  needs.  A  thousand  questions  were  suggested, 
which  Aunt  Agatha  helped  her  to  elucidate  by  a  clear  reasoning 
unobscured  by  prejudice,  and  which  constantly  led  one  from  the 
small  fact  to  the  large  principle ;  from  the  particular  instance 
to  the  universal  truth. 

The  lesson  Bethesda  learned  was  very  definite  and  clear. 
It  was,  perhaps,  what  each  one  has  to  learn  by  experience  some- 
time during  life  :  that  only  in  obedience  to  law  is  true  freedom. 
Within  certain  limits  we  are  free ;  overstep  those  limits  and  we 
are  inexorably  bound  on  every  side.  If  we  choose  what  is  right 
and  good  we  have  all  truth  to  expand  in ;  if  we  prefer  evil  we 
have  to  take  it  with  being  constantly  closer  and  closer  bound. 
Order  is  the  foundation  of  the  universe ;  try  to  destroy  that 
order  and  we  injure  ourselves  without  in  the  least  altering  cir- 
cumstances. Law  is  unchangeable  and  absolute ;  we  but  dash 
ourselves  to  death  in  trying  to  shape  it  to  the  form  of  our  desires. 

Thus  awakened  the  sense  of  the  "  majesty  of  virtue "  in 
Bethesda  Hamilton's  mind. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  This  mount  is  such  that  ever 
At  the  beginning  down  below  'tis  tiresome, 
And  aye  the  more  one  climbs  the  less  it  hurts." 

Purgatorio. 

Love  and  immortality  are  twin  thoughts  of  life. 

IT  was  on  the  evening  that  she  had  finished  this  book,  and  was 
still  under  its  arousing  influence,  that  a  Mr.  Blythe  called.  He 
had  been  a  friend  of  Margaret's,  and  still  frequented  Mrs.  Stan- 
hope's parlours,  round  which  the  scent  of  the  rose  seemed  to 
linger.  He  was  shy  of  Bethesda,  however,  and  she  found  her 
best  method  of  enjoying  the  thoughts  he  brought  was  in  keep- 
ing herself  as  unobtrusive  as  possible  while  he  and  Mrs.  Stan- 


224  BETHESDA.  [PAUL  u. 

hope  talked  together  on  subjects  which  she  was  glad  to  hear 
discussed.  In  fact  Mrs.  Stanhope  probably  led  the  conversation 
to  these  subjects,  for  she  believed  in  climatic  influences  on 
thought  as  on  nature. 

There  were  some  elections  taking  place,  in  which,  as  usual, 
Mrs.  Stanhope  was  interested. 

"  Coke  upholds  that  a  statesman  should  practise  expediency, 
I  believe,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  some  rather  sceptical  remark 
of  Mr.  Blythe's.  "  God,  indeed,  acts  so  towards  us,  but  he 
always  gives  us  real  truth  as  far  as  we  are  able  to  accept  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Blythe;  "it  seems  to 
me  I  could  endure  a  good  deal  more  than  I  receive." 

"  I  think  it  often  seems  so  to  us  all.  Beth  was  telling  me 
to-day  that  Dante,  in  his  Purgatory,  makes  the  power  to  ascend 
to  heaven  simultaneous  with  the  will  to  do  so ;  but  this  power- 
ful desire,  which  is  at  one  with  our  whole  will,  only  comes  after 
long  striving.  So  the  greater  your  desire  is  to  receive  a  revela- 
tion, the  more  must  you  patiently  labour  for  it." 

"  But  how  can  I  labour  for  a  thing  I  don't  believe  exists  1 
That  is  where  I  am  in  regard  to  religious  truth.  I  must  grasp 
it,  and  hold  it,  and  feel  it  there,  before  I  begin  to  labour  to  gain 
it  as  my  own.  I  cannot  accept  a  thing  on  faith  ;  it  must  be 
demonstrated  to  me,  and  it  seems  to  me  if  it  cannot  be  demon- 
strated its  inability  is  a  proof  against  it." 

"  So  it  would  be.  But  you  are  looking  for  a  physical  proof 
of  a  spiritual  fact.  How  can  you  prove  to  my  senses  that  you 
think?" 

"  By  speech." 

"  Then  anything  you  don't  speak  I  can  assert  you  do  not 
think  ?  But  let  that  pass.  You  cannot  see  with  your  eyes,  nor 
feel  with  your  hand,  your  intellect,  and  yet  you  would  acknow- 
ledge it  was  as  much,  if  not  more,  you  as  your  cranium. 
You  cannot  prove  that  you  love,  but  cannot  you  believe  in  an 
unmanifested  affection?"  Mr.  Blythe  moved  uneasily,  for  such 
had  been  his  feeling  for  Margaret.  "  You  cannot  prove  your 
own  individuality,  and  yet  it  is  just  that  which  is  you,  is  your 
true  self.  Your  body  is  merely  a  manifestation  of  you,  as  heat 
is  of  fire,  as  the  spark  is  of  electricity.  We  must  not  cramp 
ourselves  into  sense  proof  alone ;  we  must  progress  beyond  that, 
and  in  each  advancing  stage  we  will  find  we  have  wider  limits 
and  more  soul  room." 


CHAP,  v.]  DAWN.  225 

"  That  sounds  true,"  said  Mr.  Blythe  slowly,  while  Beth- 
esda  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  in  eager  interest. 

Just  then  there  was  ushered  in  another  caller,  a  young 
clergyman,  who  was  peculiarly  alive  to  the  needs  of  the  time, 
and  ready  to  flow  with  the  current  of  new  ideas,  so  that  he 
might  find  their  truth  and  controvert  their  error.  Mrs.  Stan- 
hope immediately  introduced  him  to  the  subject  they  had  been 
discussing,  and  he  entered  into  it  with  readiness. 

"  You  should  read  Hegel,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Blythe,  smiling. 
"  I  call  him  the  fifth  gospel.  For  any  one  who  understands 
him  he  is  simply  salvation.  If  you  once  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  history,  the  use  of  epochs,  the  reason  of  law,  you  see  God 
in  everything.  It  is  all  in  the  Bible ;  only  few  read  it  there. 
Such  men  as  Hegel  are  expounders,  almost  new  revelations." 

"Do  you  suppose  we  ever  will  be  given  a  new  revelation1?" 
asked  Bethesda  suddenly. 

"  I  certainly  do,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope  emphatically. 

"  Ah  !  do  you,  indeed  1"  remarked  Mr.  Connough,  surprised. 
"  I  would  not  have  expected  that  of  you,  Mrs.  Stanhope." 

"  I  am  sure  I  see  no  reason  against  it.  I  should  be  sorry 
to  think  that  humanity  had  all  the  truth  it  ever  would  or  could 
receive." 

"  You  are  right !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Blythe,  his  face  irradiating; 
"you  are  really  sensible  !" 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  don't  see  that,"  returned  Mr.  Connough. 
"  Christ  manifested  to  us  the  perfection  of  humanity,  and  the 
realisation  of  divinity.  He  showed  us  God  as  a  person,  and 
there  can  be  nothing  higher  than  the  manifestation  of  the  Ab- 
solute. If  a  person  asks  for  something  higher  than  this  it  is  as 
if  he  innocently  inquired,  '  What  is  there  beside  the  whole  1 ' " 

"  Yet,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  "  each  nation  has  believed  that 
its  religion  was  the  'whole,'  and  in  spite  of  this  it  has  been 
transcended.  Why  may  not  the  future  transcend  Christ  1 " 

"  Your  question  refers  to  the  condition  of  religions  before 
Christ  came.  They  were  constantly  transcending  one  another 
because  they  had  not  yet  reached  the  reconciliation.  Christ  was 
the  first  infinite,  and  the  first  is  the  last.  Each  religion  before 
that  grew  beyond  and  beyond ;  since  Christ  it  is  growing  into 
itself.  Christ  taught  us  how  the  finite  can  grow  into  the 
infinite ;  how  the  individual  can  become  universal.  What  can 
there  be  beyond  1" 


226  BETIIESDA.  [PART  n. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Blythe,  "  there  was  Buddha ;  wherein  did 
he  differ  from  Christ  1  Where  was  he  so  inferior  1  He  taught 
his  people  self-sacrifice  and  morality,  and  that  is  what  Christ 
taught  after  Buddha." 

"  Christ  never  taught  self-sacrifice  as  an  end,  only  a  means. 
He  taught  us  to  sacrifice  our  lower  selves  to  our  higher  selves  ; 
our  higher  selves  to  our  highest  self.  For  every  death  he  taught 
a  resurrection.  Buddha  taught :  Do  good  that  ye  may  cease  to 
exist.  Christ  taught :  Do  good  that  ye  may  have  everlasting 
life.  The  ultimation  of  Buddhism  is  self-extinction ;  the  ulti- 
mation  of  Christianity  is  self-realisation,  as  Christ  showed  us. 
In  him  we  have  the  infinite  grown  out  of  the  finite  ;  the  abso- 
lute 'being'  out  of  the  limited  'becoming.'  In  him  we  sec 
what  humanity  can  be,  what  it  is  potentially,  as,  therefore, 
what  it  must  be  in  its  final  development." 

"And  you  find  this  all  in  Hegel?"  asked  Mr.  Stanhope. 

"  It  is  all  there  and  in  the  Bible.  Every  man  who  teaches 
the  truth  is  a  disciple  of  Christ's.  He  must  be ;  he  cannot 
help  himself  if  he  would.  History  shows  us  that  great  ages 
blossom  forth  into  great  men.  One  man  sums  up  the  meaning 
of  his  time,  and  catches  the  light  of  the  future  on  his  uplifted 
face.  The  world  is  like  a  great  century  plant :  it  grows  slowly 
from  joint  to  joint,  and  then  holds  up  a  glorious  flower  to  the 
admiration  of  mankind.  Presently  that  withers,  but  the 
century  plant  progresses,  and  its  second  blossom  is  higher  than 
the  first.  Hegel  tells  you  how  the  natural  is  the  first  blossom. 
Experience  alone  satisfies  us.  Then  comes  the  artistic.  Greece 
and  the  Eenaissance  make  the  cycle  of  art,  which  is  higher 
than  nature;  it  is  nearer  the  reality  in  its  symbolism.  But  we 
have  passed  beyond  that  to  the  moral  cycle,  which  began  with 
the  Reformation,  and  which  is  going  through  the  strict  analysis 
of  science  in  the  present.  It  is  the  fashion  of  our  time  to  see 
infidelity  everywhere,  for  it  to  be  everywhere ;  but  do  you 
think  for  this  that  the  world  is  really  growing  worse  1  Do  you 
suppose  God  thinks  it  is  suddenly  rolling  backwards  ?  No, 
indeed !  Where  we  see  decay,  God  sees  growth.  Growth  it 
is,  though  the  apple  may  fall  with  a  shock  that  causes  an  earth- 
quake, though  its  decay  may  poison  thousands.  The  seed  will 
sprout,  will  push  itself  steadily  up  through  the  dark  ground  for 
a  while,  but  at  last  it  will  raise  itself  in  the  light  of  heaven, 
and  we  will  see  its  beauty  and  call  it  good," 


CHAP,  v.]  REASONABLE  CHRISTIANITY.  227 

> 

"Then  you  think,"  said  Mr.  Stanhope,  "that  all  this 
atheism  and  confusion  of  morals  will  result  in  something  better 
than  what  went  before  it  ?  For  my  part  I  think  the  good  old 
times  of  our  fathers  were  best." 

"  It  is  because  you  have  not  looked  into  the  question  suffi- 
ciently deeply,"  said  Mr.  Connough  with  earnestness.  "  By 
this  minute  analysis,  this  destruction  of  all  life,  because  only  a 
dead  body  can  be  dissected,  the  dross  of  human  additions  and 
complications  of  Christ's  life  will  be  cleared  away.  Then,  when 
nothing  remains  in  our  hands  or  minds  but  the  dead  fragments 
of  material  which  formed  the  home  of  a  soul,  we  shall  recognise 
that  there  is  something  beyond  the  reach  of  the  scalpel,  and  we 
shall  take  truer  means  to  find  out  what  it  is  which  influences 
the  molecules  of  the  brain,  and  causes  consciousness,  or  what 
we  call  soul.  The  powerful  tendency -of  the  present,  Mr.  Stan- 
hope, is  only  a  counteraction  to  the  powerful  tendency  of  the 
past.  What  was  then  resistless  in  its  effort  to  suffocate  reason 
by  floods  of  blind  faith,  is  now  washing  faith  away  in  the  under- 
tow of  a  receding  tide  that  leaves  thirsty  science  staring  blankly 
at  the  sky.  Presently  we  shall  find  that  '  moving  equilibrium ' 
which  Herbert  Spencer  calls  synonymous  with  perfection." 

"As  I  understand  you,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  "you 
would  term  this  scientific  investigation  of  spiritual  truth  a  kind 
of  mental  Crusade,  and  one  which  will  meet  with  the  same 
result :  thousands  of  lost  lives  to  buy  an  empty  tomb." 

"  Precisely !  The  Crusaders  only  repeated  what  the  disciples 
did  when  they  went  to  the  sepulchre,  and  Christ  rebuked  them 
with  the  words  :  '  Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead  V 
It  is  what  the  scientists  are  doing  to-day." 

"Art  saved  the  Crusaders,  I  believe,"  returned  Mrs. Stanhope ; 
"  that  is,  they  began  to  seek,  not  the  tomb,  but  some  more  spirit- 
ual symbol  of  divinity.  Now,  what  is  it  that  will  save  us  ? " 

"Not  art  in  any  case.  We  are  not  satisfied  with  that 
limited  view.  Our  ideals  of  Christ  transcend  all  conceptions 
ever  worked  into  canvas  or  marble.  Holman  Hunt  and  Dord 
may  try  their  realistic  pictures;  they  will  not  answer  our  needs. 
Even  in  art  we  need  something  more  complex.  Modern  life  is 
complex ;  a  lyre  of  three  strings  will  not  serve  us.  I  myself 
think  the  novel  is  the  art  of  the  future.  It  does  not  circum- 
scribe, it  is  suggestive  of  outlines  rather  than  outlining.  It  is 
soul-painting,  spirit  sculpture.  No  ;  philosophical  insight  is,  I 


228  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

should  say,  the  answer  to  your  question,  Mrs.  Stanhope.  But 
we  must  carry  up  with  us  the  different  phases  of  our  religious 
beliefs  as  we  do  our  arts.  Philosophy  is  not  another  religion  : 
it  is  a  higher  form,  a  development  of  Christianity.  But  beware 
of  leaving  your  emotional  religion  behind  you.  Let  the  light 
of  reason  shine  through  your  soul's  windows,  but  keep  warm  by 
the  fire  of  affection.  You  should  be  able  to  both  feel  God's 
love  and  see  his  wisdom." 

"  Then  you,  of  course,  think  Christianity  will  be  the  religion 
of  the  future  ? " 

"  Surely  I  do.  But  why  trouble  about  the  future  1  It  is 
to-day  that  we  live,  and  to-day  that  we  must  both  live  nobly 
and  think  rightly.  We  must  throw  away  no  opportunities  to- 
day which  perception,  energetic  thought,  and  reverence  for 
truth,  can  bring  us,  or  to-morrow  will  still  find  us  indolent  to 
accept  what  to-morrow  brings.  Every  one  who  is  not  morally 
dead  has,  I  think  I  may  affirm,  some  religion.  They  may  deny 
the  name  and  the  fact,  but  it  is  Christianity  which  has  im- 
pregnated the  air  with  its  germs  of  liberty  and  humanity  to  give 
'  free  thinkers '  their  free  thought  and  devotion  to  humanity. 
He  who  is  true  to  principle  and  mercifid  to  his  neighbour  obeys 
Christ's  two  commandments.  I  would  have  the  men  of  to-day 
live  nobly  the  present,  not  the  past  nor  future.  There  are 
many  orthodox  doctrines,  so  called,  which  cannot  but  seem 
absurd  or  cruel  to  a  reasonable  man.  Hell  and  Heaven  as 
pictured  by  Dante,  who  does  it  with  a  far  more  liberal  brush 
than"  many  of  the  theologians  of  to-day,  are  a  poetry,  not  a  belief. 
They  are  forms  only,  and  picture  a  mythology  not  more  essential 
to  the  life  of  to-day  than  Homer's  Olympus.  All  these  things 
are  but  bodies  which  fall  away  and  decay,  but — and  here  is  the 
secret  of  content — the  spirit  that  vivifies  them  is  only  left  free 
thereby  to  make  new  and  more  elevated  and  uplifting  forms, 
which  will  be,  whatever  they  are,  the  world's  next  creed.  What 
is  a  vital  necessity  to  us  to-day  is  to  hold  close  by  this  spirit, 
and  understand  that  it  is  steadfast,  and  unchangeable,  and 
serene.  It  is  never  past,  nor  to  be ;  it  exists  in  the  everlasting 
Now,  and  though  its  forms  be  Protean,  it  is  simply  itself." 

"  Won't  following  one's  conscience  bring  one  to  that  1 " 
asked  Bethesda  timidly. 

"  The  belief  in  conscience  as  the  highest  is  like  the  Jewish 
religion,  Miss  Hamilton.  They  are  both  negative,  and  apply 


CHAP,  v.]  SPIRITUAL  EVOLUTION.  229 

only  to  individuals,  not  to  humanity  as  a  race.  They  are  both  full 
of '  sha'n'ts.'  Look  at  the  difference  between  the  Commandments 
and  the  Beatitudes,  and  you  will  see  what  I  mean.  Besides, 
they  neither  of  them  have  any  serenity  or  centre  of  absolute 
principle.  In  the  Old  Testament,  for  instance,  the  Lord  is 
represented  as  'angry'  or  'pacified.'  As  if  we  could  'grieve' 
or  '  offend '  God  !  He  would  be  always  angry,  always  grieved, 
always  relentless,  if  he  were  ever  so !  We  cannot  alter  the 
Eternal ;  but  we  may  anger,  and  grieve,  and  offend,  and  alter 
our  consciences,  and  this  is  what  the  Jews  meant.  The  belief 
in  conscience  is  apt  to  fall  just  as  the  Jewish  religion  did,  but 
both  have  a  prophecy  of  the  Messiah  inherent  in  them,  and  to 
both  when  the  time  is  ripe  a  Saviour  comes." 

He  smiled  down  at  Bethesda  very  kindly  as  he  rose  to  go, 
but  the  eyes  she  raised  to  his  showed  their  unsatisfied  hunger 
painfully.  The  smile  faded  from  his  face,  and  an  anxious  desire 
to  help  made  him  say  : 

"  When  any  new  perception  of  truth  comes  you  may  be  sure 
it  will  be  to  one  who  is  pre-eminently  in  the  stream  of  Provi- 
dence ;  that  is,  actively,  and  with  his  whole  soul  employed  in 
the  duties  of  life,  trying  to  fill  each  one  with  the  bounty  of  an 
unselfish  ardour.  Then  we  must  get  outside  of  the  narrow 
limits  of  conscience  into  a  recognition  of  something  larger  than 
ourself,  in  the  good  of  society,  of  the  nation,  and  thence  the 
Church.  It  will  come,  but  we  must  discipline  ourselves  for  the 
highest  by  practice  in  the  lower  forms.  We  cannot  afford  to 
pass  these  by  ;  if  we  do  we  lose  all." 

He  bowed,  and,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Blythe,  departed. 

"What  a  liberal  clergyman  !"  said  Bethesda. 

"  So  liberal  that  his  congregation  will  soon  turn  him  off," 
remarked  Mr.  Stanhope  drily.  "Yet  he  has  good  ideas  too. 
Blythe  seemed  greatly  interested ;  eh,  wife  1 " 

"  Yes,  he  needs  some  such  man  to  talk  to.  He  thinks  a 
woman  is  peculiarly  constructed  for  the  purpose  of  having  faith 
in  things  no  man  can  believe  in.  Of  course  that  is  folly,  but  a 
great  many  men  are  like  him.  They  even  go  so  far  as  to  prefer 
a  woman  should  believe  what  they  can  see  no  sense  in;  it 
makes  them  more  '  womanly,'  they  think." 

"  Now,  you  need  not  give  me  the  benefit  of  all  that  sar- 
casm ! "  exclaimed  Ealeigh,  laughing.  "  You  know  I  am  not 
one  of  those  dreadful  men  !  " 


230  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

But  Mrs.  Stanhope  only  smiled  absently.  She  was  thinking 
of  what  had  been  said. 

"  When  I  was  a  girl,"  she  remarked  presently,  "  I  knew  a 
woman  who  felt  herself  made  for  something  uncommon,  and 
who  prepared  for  it  by  idle  waiting,  because  her  talents  were 
too  noble  for  humble  use.  She  tried  after  the  unattainable, 
and  dived  after  the  unfathomable,  to  the  neglect  of  all  ordinary 
duties.  Thus  she  lost  all  possibility  of  attaining  the  heights. 
Her  feet,  unaccustomed  to  the  first  steps  of  the  ladder,  could 
not  through  all  her  life  climb  more  than  the  lower  ones,  and 
those  with  difficulty.  The  stars  she  worshipped,  and  longed 
impotently  for  wings  to  attain,  passed  her  by,  and  shone  in 
other  skies.  I  worshipped  her ;  I  looked  confidently  for  that 
wondrous  revelation  which  was  to  surprise  the  world  and 
blind  it  while  her  long-expectant  eyes  could  alone  sustain  the 
light.  But  I  recognised  that  it  was  long  in  coming,  and  I 
decided  that  I  must  content  myself  with  lower  things — 

"You  would  be  the  kitchen-maid,"  interrupted  Raleigh, 
"  and  you  are  my  Princess  Cinderella.  So  put  on  your  glass 
slipper,  and  let  us  go  upstairs.  Beth  looks  tired." 

"  You  are  all  teaching  me  so  much  ! "  exclaimed  Bethesda, 
with  something  of  her  old  impulsiveness.  "  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  to-night's  lessons." 

And  then  the  thought  came  to  her  with  a  sudden  pang : 
How  much  interest  would  Rene"  take  in  such  an  evening's  con- 
versation ?  He  rocked  himself  in  his  old  creeds,  while  she  was 
battling  in  the  present ;  was  this  another  side  where  they  did 
not  respond  to  one  another  ? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"Tlie  gladness  of  true  heroism  visits  the  heart  of  him  who  is  really 
competent  to  say  :  I  court  truth." — TYNDAL. 

"  Help  us,  0  Lord,  to  feel  that,  when  we  put  one  hand  bravely  in 
that  of  Truth,  the  other  is  clasped  in  thine." — JOHN  SNYDER. 

IN  spite  of  such  conversations  as  these,  and  the  invigorating 
books  Mrs.  Stanhope  gave  Bethesda  to  read,  intellectual  per- 
ception was  still  weak  and  impotent,  like  a  new-born  babe,  com- 
pared to  the  mighty  tidal-waves  of  passion  which  surged  now 


CHAP,  vi.]          A  MERCIFUL  UNCONSCIOUSNESS.  231 

and  again  over  the  woman's  heart  and  left  her  prostrate. 
Some  little  thing  would  recall  the  past,  and  she  would  turn 
sick  and  dizzy  as  one  does  in  a  heavily-perfumed  room.  One 
day  when  she  came  in  from  driving,  and  laid  aside  the  cloak 
Rend  had  particularly  liked,  and  the  gloves  fragrant  with  the 
perfume  he  had  chosen,  the  vivid  memories  came  over  her  with 
a  suffocation  of  desire  which  was  well-nigh  insane.  The  red 
damask  room,  the  buhl  furniture,  the  deep  windows  and  views 
therefrom,  were  all  pictured  before  her  in  a  flash  which  blinded 
her  to  her  present  surroundings. 

Fortunately  Agatha  called  her  in  a  moment,  and  during 
luncheon  the  poignant  sensation  passed.  But  when  she  came 
out  again  and  saw  her  wraps,  she  saw  as  distinctly  the  tall 
lithe  form,  the  proud  head,  and  deep  eyes  of  one 

"  I  love  ! "  she  exclaimed  in  defiance. 

She  went  to  her  own  room,  and  paced  up  and  down  fiercely. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  it  all  ? "  she  cried  beneath  her  breath. 
"  Let  me  be  ill !  I  am  tired  of  fighting  and  feigning ;  tired  of 
pretending  to  be  content  when  the  source  of  happiness  is  poi- 
soned ;  tired  of  keeping  up  appearances,  and  trying  to  make  even 
myself  feel  that  there  is  still  much  to  live  for.  I  don't  wish 
to  live !  I  am  envious  of  every  person  whom  I  hear  has  been 
accidentally  killed.  Why  should  they  be  thus  chosen  ?  It  is 
not  just  that  I  should  pass  untouched  where  others  meet  dear 
death.  Why  won't  they  let  the  stupor  of  illness  deaden  the 
pain  of  my  brain  ?  I  want  to  die,  to  die  ! " 

She  had  never  acknowledged  this  to  herself  before;  she 
had  stifled,  yet  unborn,  all  such  feelings ;  but  now  she  was 
desperate.  How  much  could  one  suffer  and  live  ? 

That  same  day  Agatha  came  in  to  call  her  for  dinner,  and 
found  her  asleep,  and,  when  she  tried,  could  not  waken  her. 
She  bade  the  servant  telephone  for  the  physician  who  had  for- 
merly examined  her  niece's  heart.  He  came.  Bethesda  had 
not  moved;  her  breathing  was  hardly  perceptible,  and  her 
pulse  so  faint  as  to  be  unnoticeable.  She  lay  as  still  and  almost 
as  white  as  death,  with  purple  shadows  under  her  eyes,  and  her 
mouth  inexpressibly  sad. 

The  physician  looked  down  at  her  with  more  feeling  than 
he  usually  displayed. 

"  She  is  worn  out,"  he  said.  "  Let  her  sleep  as  long  as  she 
will.  She  can  awake  only  to  suffer." 


232  BETHESDA.  [PART  u. 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  cannot  escape  the  disease  now1?" 
asked  Agatha. 

"  I  mean  she  must  be  a  great  deal  worse  before  she  can  be 
better.  I  mean,  dear  Mrs.  Stanhope,  I  mean  that  all  your 
powers  of  nursing  will  be  required  to  bring  her  through." 

"  Is  the  danger  of  death  or  lingering  disease  ?" 

"  Of  both.  There  is  trouble  with  the  brain  as  well  as  the 
heart." 

"  Is  there  danger  of  her  being  insane  1  You  know  I  always 
wish  to  know  the  worst."  Agatha  put  her  hand  behind  her  as 
she  spoke,  and  grasped  the  high  back  of  a  chair. 

"  I  think  not,"  was  the  quick  response,  "  I  should  say  she 
had  a  strong  mind  ? " 

'  An  active  one." 

'  And  with  good  reasoning  powers  1 " 

'Yes." 

'  She  is  having  a  great  trouble  of  some  kind  1 " 

'Yes." 

'  Has  it  reached  the  climax  yet  1 " 

'  I  don't  know." 

'  She  can  bear  little  more.  You  must  guard  her  in  every  way." 

'  I  can't,  doctor ; "  and  then  the  brave  woman  broke  down. 
This  was  the  worst,  that,  do  what  she  might,  she  could  not 
protect  the  frail  body  from  the  gnawing  mind. 

She  recovered  herself  in  a  moment,  however. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done  until  she  wakens,  you  say ; 
and  then  ? " 

"  Send  for  me.     I  will  come  again  in  the  morning  anyway." 

He  came  without  being  sent  for.  Bethesda  still  lay  in  the 
childlike  posture,  with  one  hand  beneath  her  cheek.  They 
turned  her  over — the  horrible  dead  weight ! — and  left  her  for 
another  twelve  hours.  Then  she  wakened,  and  smiled  at  her 
aunt  in  the  firelight. 

"  I  have  had  such  a  good  rest,"  she  said.  "  It  must  be 
quite  dinner-time." 

She  rose,  and  tried  to  dress,  but  found  herself  weak  and 
languid.  'Mrs.  Stanhope  thought  it  best  to  tell  her,  very 
quietly,  that  nature  had  taken  a  rest  in  her  despite,  and  that 
she  had  slept  a  whole  day.  Bethesda  was  a  trifle  startled,  but 
the  hazy  calm  which  had  settled  upon  her  shielded  her  mind 
from  active  apprehension. 


CHAP,  vi.]  REAWAKENING.  233 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  an  unusually  warm  and  late  Indian 
summer,  and  Mrs.  Stanhope  obeyed  the  physician's  mandate  in 
taking  Beth  out  for  long,  slow  drives  over  the  prairie  lands  that 
rose  and  fell  in  wooded  undulations  to  the  dim  horizon.  Balmy 
winds  blew  from  the  south  ;  an  indefinable  fragrance  filled  the 
air;  the  sunbeams  shed  only  soft  lights  through  the  misty 
atmosphere;  the  few  remaining  leaves  were  golden,  and  the 
dark  lines  of  branches  were  delicate  and  fine.  Empty  birds' 
nests  suggested  the  spring-time  with  an  added  melancholy,  and 
the  birds,  resting  in  their  migrations,  found,  where  had  been 
the  gloom  of  verdure,  only  shadows  like  mellowed  light. 

Someway  the  autumn,  the  ripening  and  falling  time,  came  upon 
Bethesda  with  a  peculiar  force  of  sweetness.  She  seemed  to  feel 
as  she  would  when  she  was  middle-aged  and  calm,  and  life  had 
become  more  meditative  than  active — and  anguished — to  her. 
She  surrendered  herself  to  it  voluntarily.  She  was  content  to 
forget  just  now;  she  and  nature  together  were  quietly  resting. 

But  all  too  soon  they  woke  one  morning  to  find  their 
Indian  summer  gone,  and  in  its  stead  winter  was  drearily 
throned  for  an  unbroken  reign.  A  wild  prairie  wind  shrieked 
and  sobbed  and  moaned  around  the  house,  and  large  fires 
barely  sufficed  to  warm  the  rooms  where  a  few  days  before  the 
windows  had  been  open  to  let  the  soft  air  enter  and  stir  Beth- 
csda's  white  dress  and  fine  bronze  hair. 

She  shivered  now  and  collected  herself,  and  tried  to  look 
the  future  bravely  in  the  face.  It  was  little  over  a  month  be- 
fore her  final  decision  must  be  rendered,  and  the  correspondence 
with  Rene'  planted,  to  bring  forth  what  fruits  it  might,  or 
annihilated  for  a  practical  eternity. 

She  investigated  the  abysses  of  her  own  mind  as  steadily  as 
she  could.  Perhaps  she  had  been  unduly  influenced  by  physical 
weakness,  she  thought.  Perhaps  she  was  unwilling  to  follow 
one  course,  whether  conscience  commanded  it  or  not,  so  uncon- 
sciously closed  that  issue.  This  must  not  be.  On  what  did 
Rent's  greatest  welfare  depend  1  This  was  the  important 
question.  If  she  broke  the  correspondence  definitely  it  might, 
instead  of  awakening  his  moral  nature,  destroy  his  belief  in 
woman,  and  the  bitterness  would  poison  his  whole  character. 
If  she  wrote  to  him,  her  letters  would  be  the  result  of  long  and 
severe  thought,  and  she  might  lead  him  from  doing  what  she 
said,  to  do  what  his  conscience  said.  It  would  be  a  great  shock 


234  BETIIESDA.  [PAET  ii. 

to  him  in  any  case  to  find  that  she  had  changed  her  opinions 
so  much;  but  the  blow  might  benefit  him,  although  he  had 
such  a  buoyant  disposition  that  he  quickly  adjusted  himself  to 
any  burden  given  him  to  bear,  and  found  it  light.  Too  light ; 
it  did  not  crush  him  enough  to  bring  out  the  pure  ore. 

Rene'  was,  however,  very  close  to  her  all  that  evening. 
Indeed,  was  he  not  always  near  her  ?  She  was  not  conscious 
of  a  moment  when,  either  active  or  dormant,  the  thought  of 
him  was  other  than  present.  As  she  wakened  it  never  came 
with  suddenness  that  she  remembered  him ;  the  thought 
wakened  with  her,  and  was  quietly  in  possession  when  she 
became  fully  conscious.  She  talked  and  read  aloud,  and  listened 
to  others,  and  his  spirit  was  ever  there,  watchful,  cherishing, 
seldom  importunate — for  he  would  not  have  been — but  always 
read  to  step  forward  into  the  light  of  her  active  recognition 
when  the  imperativeness  of  other  demands  was  answered.  It 
was  sweet  and  upholding ;  it  was  as  if  he  were  consciously 
present,  as  at  the  Conovers'  the  evening  before  their  departure, 
talking  himself  and  leaving  her  free,  but  drawing  around  her 
a  warm  garment  of  unceasing  attention  and  proud  tenderness. 

Several  callers  did  not  interfere  with  an  unusually  keen 
apprehension  of  Renews  presence  until  Mr.  Connough  commanded 
Bethesda's  undivided  attention  by  what  he  was  saying  to  another 
caller — a  Mr.  Fluting. 

Daniel  Deronda  was  the  topic  of  conversation,  and  Mr. 
Fluting  had  been  drawing  a  comparison  between  Grandcourt 
and  Deronda,  and  awarding  his  praise  to  the  large  sympathy  of 
the  latter.  This  immediately  aroused  Bethesda.  She  was  not 
one  of  those  who  found  Deronda  unreal.  Many  of  the  touches 
a  master-hand  had  given  to  his  character  touched  home  to  her 
heart.  Was  not  his  writing  with  Mordecai  like  hers  with 
Rene'  1  Was  not  his  wide  sympathy  the  element  she  had  tried 
to  make  her  own  1  Had  not  she  also  been  "  early  impassioned 
by  ideas,"  and  at  least  tried  "  to  burn  her  fires  on  those 
heights  "  ? 

"The  tendencies  of  the  times,"  remarked  Mr.  Connough 
decisively,  "  are  to  make  such  men  as  Deronda  the  ideal  type. 
His  sympathies  were  so  spread  out  into  the  vague  that  he  had 
no  convictions ;  he  put  himself  in  every  one's  place  except  his 
own.  This  is  the  end  to  which  some  of  our  best  minds  aspire. 
Is  it  good  1  Is  it  beneficial  to  humanity  ?  For  myself  I  doubt 


CHAP,  vi.]  DERONDA  AND  GWENDOLEN.  235 

it.  I  think  we  should  have  a  generosity  large  enough  to  em- 
brace ourselves." 

"  Some  writer,"  suggested  Mrs.  Stanhope,  "  strongly  advo- 
cates this  lack  of  convictions.  '  Convictions  are  crystallisations,' 
he  says.  '  It  is  freezing  the  water  of  life.' " 

"  Well,  what  does  that  amount  to  1 "  asked  Mr.  Connough, 
controversially.  "Deronda,  the  modern  ideal,  let  us  say,  did 
nothing  until  he  was  forced  by  his  self-abnegation  into  the  con- 
centrated life-purpose  of  a  one-idea'd  man.  We  are  few  of  us 
in  a  position  to  '  put  ourselves  back  into  the  antediluvian 
period  to  sympathise  with  a  megatherium ' !  There  is  some 
absolute  duty  for  each  one  to  perform,  and  we  cannot  expect 
Fate,  in  the  guise  of  a  Mordecai,  to  bring  our  work  to  our 
hands  as  it  was  brought  to  Deronda's.  If  we  misdirect  our 
energies  the  world  misses  the  work  we  were  born  for,  and  we 
must  each  find  it  out  for  ourselves." 

"  Gwendolen  in  the  same  way  waited  for  Deronda  to  tell 
her  what  was  right,  didn't  she  1  She  had  the  moral  indecision 
that  Deronda  had  intellectually." 

"  Yes,  Deronda  was  Gwendolen's  conscience.  She  was  too 
egotistic  a  nature,  perhaps,  to  have  it  awakened  otherwise  than 
by  emotion,  by  having  a  conscience  outside  of  her;  but  once 
awakened,  absolute  separation  was  necessary  for  her  to  be  able 
to  develop  her  real  conscience.  Had  she  married  Deronda 
she  would  never  have  had  any  conscience  of  her  own  at  all. 
She  married  a  man  self-determined  at  least,  whatever  his  faults, 
and  Deronda  married  a  woman  also  self-determined.  There 
was  no  chance  about  it;  it  was  one  of  the  must-be's  of 
character." 

What  an  insight  was  this  for  Bethesda  !  She  seized  on  it 
with  her  quick  intuition,  and  said  : 

"  Then  the  right  thing  would  be  to  be  crystallised  within 
oneself,  and  fluid  to  others." 

"  True,  true  !"  exclaimed  an  incipient  admirer  of  Bethesda's. 
"  You  have  put  it  admirably,  Miss  Hamilton." 

Mr.  Stanhope  was  walking  up  and  down  the  parlour,  with 
his  hands  behind  him.  He  stopped  now,  facing  the  group 
around  the  fire. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  legend,"  he  said,  "  of  a  monk,  a 
good  but  narrow-minded  man,  who  tried  to  convince  every  one 
of  his  own  particular  creed,  and  failing,  damned  them  eternally  1 


236  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

No  reflections,  Mr.  Connough  !  Well,  one  day  he  fell  asleep — 
a  man  must  tire  easily  with  such  a  weight  of  responsibility  ! — 
and  in  a  dream  he  saw  himself  walking  by  a  stream  of  pure 
water.  Presently  a  beautiful  youth  appeared,  and  set  many 
differently -shaped  vessels  on  the  bank,  no  two  alike,  but  all 
transparent,  and  then,  he  filled  each  one  with  water  from  the 
stream.  The  good  man  was  perplexed  when  the  youth  looked 
at  him  to  see  if  he  understood,  and  desired  him  to  explain ;  so 
the  angel  said  :  '  The  water  takes  the  form  of  the  vessel  which 
contains  it,  but  it  is  always  the  same  in  itself.  Remember  this.' 
And  the  old  monk  awoke,  and  he  did  remember  it,  and  it  changed 
him  from  a  dogmatic  sectarian  to  the  widest-minded  man  of  his 
times." 

"And  I  believe  with  Beth,"  added  Mrs.  Stanhope,  "that 
it  is  the  same  with  what  we  are  to  ourselves  and  to  others. 
We  can  have  our  convictions  pure  and  true,  and  our  sympathies 
fluid  enough  to  follow  each  curve  and  line  of  other  minds." 

"  There  is  a  very  good  sermon  in  that  story,"  said  Mr. 
Connough  thoughtfully.  "I  wish  I  could  prevail  upon  my 
people  to  understand  that  reason  is  the  very  life  of  religion  ; 
that  we  must  serve  God  with  our  minds  as  well  as  our  hearts." 

"  How  do  you  explain  '  reasonably,' "  asked  Mr.  Stanhope, 
"  the  necessity  of  this  blind  faith  and  cruel  narrowness  which 
has  marked  the  Christian  Church  ? " 

"  I  take  it  in  this  way,"  was  the  reply.  "  The  emphasis 
placed  on  faith  in  the  earlier  centuries  of  Christianity  was 
needed  to  consolidate  the  religion  and  make  its  truths,  its  in- 
junctions, sink  into  the  hearts  of  men.  This  speedily  degenerated 
into  superstition,  and  ignorance  brought  its  inevitable  result  in 
sin.  Then  to  the  synthetic  unity  which  faith  had  produced 
was  brought  the  analytic  power  of  doubt ;  first  in  the  Reforma- 
tion, now  in  science,  and  I  believe  one  will  be  of  as  inestimable 
value  to  humanity  as  the  other.  By  scepticism  our  religion 
will  be  regenerated ;  not  in  itself,  for,  as  Christ  taught  it,  it  is 
eternally  of  the  same  perfection,  but  in  the  acceptation  of  it  by 
men,  which  is  what  the  world  needs.  As  I  said  the  other 
evening,  by  scepticism  all  the  non-essentials  will  be  eliminated, 
and  like  the  sky  when  the  clouds  are  swept  away,  it  will  be 
seen  as  one  unstained  sapphire  of  truth  from  the  zenith  to  the 
horizon." 

"  Have  you  read  any  of  Mallock's  books,  Miss  Hamilton  1 " 


CHAP,  vi.]  MAERIAGE  A  SACRAMENT.  237 

asked  Mr.  Fluting,  turning  away  from  the  others  with  some 
impatience.  He  much  preferred  a  tete-ct-tete,  where  he  could 
do  all  the  talking,  especially  to  such  a  listener.  But  she  was 
not  in  an  indolent  frame  of  mind  to-night.  She  was  now,  on 
the  contrary,  eager  for  food,  eager  for  knowledge,  aroused  once 
more  to  the  interminable  combat.  So  she  turned  to  Mr. 
Connough  with  Mr.  Fluting's  question. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  Mallock,  do  you  ? " 

"  He  doesn't  see  far.  He  cannot  answer  the  questions  he 
propounds,  but  he  voices  the  yearning  of  the  time,  and  reaches 
more  truth  unconsciously  than  he  does  consciously.  He  makes 
love,  conjugal  love,  the  waiting  ground  or  the  antechamber  of 
the  divine.  He  tells  men  to  seek  the  highest  they  do  know, 
while  waiting  or  seeking  for  the  unknown.  I  think  you  will 
find  everywhere  that  when  men  do  not  know  God  they  do  not 
comprehend  the  significance  of  marriage.  And  when  they 
realise  that  entire  self-surrender,  and  a  finding  of  themselves  in 
another  is  their  greatest  happiness,  then  they  begin  to  under- 
stand what  it  is  to  give  themselves  to  a  diviner  power,  to  an 
inexhaustible  love,  and  so  come  to  an  apprehension  of  God." 

There  was  a  little  silence  after  this.  Even  Mr.  Fluting 
did  not  find  anything  immediately  to  say;  but  presently  Mrs. 
Stanhope  led  the  conversation  back  into  more  ordinary  channels, 
and  Mr.  Connough  soon  rose  to  go.  Mr.  Fluting  followed  him, 
for  Bethesda  was  immersed  in  the  thoughts  that  had  been 
awakened,  and  he  found  himself  a  little  de  trop. 

Bethesda's  earnest  effort  to  see  was  not  without  success. 
In  the  night  a  startling  possibility  suggested  itself,  and  dazed 
her  at  first.  What  if  she  should  write  to  Madame  d'lsten,  tell 
the  situation  frankly,  and  hold  herself  at  Renews  wife's  com- 
mands ? 

It  might  open  Louise's  eyes,  excite  her  jealousy,  and  thus 
make  her  realise  her  husband's  worth,  and  incite  her  to  strive 
to  keep  his  affection.  If  this  could  be  accomplished  his  best 
welfare  would  be  secured.  The  passionate  attachment  between 
him  and  Bethesda  should  be  used  as  a  tool  for  the  more  perfect 
modelling  of  character. 

But,  would  this  be  the  result?  Bethesda  forced  herself  to 
look  searchingly  into  the  character  over  whose  weaknesses  she 
had  hitherto  drawn  a  sheltering  veil.  Louise  d'lsten,  so  far  as 
Bethesda  knew  her,  was  undeniably  a  weak  woman.  She  was 


238  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

selfish,  and  discontented,  and  passionate,  with  no  effort  to 
be  otherwise.  She  had  the  faults  of  a  narrow  education, 
and  a  pernicious  society.  If  Bethesda  wrote,  it  might 
rouse  her  jealousy  in  such  a  way  that  she  would  hate  her 
husband,  and  take  revenge  by  giving  free  reins  to  all  her 
desires.  But  the  thought  haunted  Bethesda,  and  when  next 
day  a  letter  from  Rend,  forwarded  by  Mrs.  Trescott,  came, 
telling  of  his  having  been  to  see  his  wife,  and  having  informed 
her  of  his  literary  compact  with  Bethesda,  she  thought  this 
smoothed  the  path  before  her. 

She  was  ready  to  humiliate  herself  in  any  way,  if  by  so 
doing  she  could  help  Rene'  and  Louise.  Madame  d'Isten  was 
now  definitely  aware  that  such  a  woman  as  Bethesda  Hamilton 
existed,  and,  not  improbably,  had  some  feeling  of  jealousy  for 
her  already.  If  so,  would  not  the  effect  of  the  proposed  letter 
be  more  towards  action  than  complaint  1  Bethesda  was  sure 
that,  although  Rend  had  told  his  wife  of  the  compact,  he  had 
given  her  no  voice  in  the  matter.  She,  Bethesda,  would  do 
this,  and,  moreover,  would  show  Louise  how  she  might  win  her 
husband  more  fully  than  ever,  and  in  doing  so,  help  him  and 
assure  both  their  happiness.  What  if  she  should  even  prevail 
upon  Madame  d'Isten  to  write  to  her,  and  then  reconcile  the 
conflicting  elements  1  Ah,  that  would  be  worth  living  for ! 
That  would  be  work  meet  for  repentance. 

But  presently  common-sense  began  to  reassert  itself  against 
this  high  romance,  and  humility  taught  her  that  these  were 
fallacious  self-deceptions.  It  was  not  her  place  to  anticipate 
any  such  results  from  what  had  been  sinful  error  from  the 
beginning.  She  must  seek  a  fuller  and  surer  expiation. 

While  her  mind  was  under  the  full  effect  of  this  disappoint- 
ment she  stood  one  afternoon  in  her  bay-window,  her  spirit  as 
sodden  as  the  chill  earth.  She  looked  dully  at  the  leaden  sky, 
which  seemed  all  of  one  hue,  except  where  the  rain-laden  clouds 
were  scourged  onwards  by  the  north  wind.  Involuntarily  she 
contrasted  this  December  with  the  June  six  months  before. 
The  wide  streets,  the  avenues  of  blossoming  trees,  the  statuary, 
the  sweet  air  and  sunny  skies  of  la  belle  France, — how  she 
yearned  for  them  !  The  months  contrasted  sadly  enough  in 
other  ways.  Then  the  most  fatiguing  and  constant  exertions, 
the  late  hours  and  light  sleep,  could  not  detract  from  the  glad- 
ness of  heart  which  made  her  strong  and  buoyant.  Now  rest, 


CHAP,  vi.]  THE  BODY  IS  WEAK.  239 

intellectual  food,  petting  without  limit,  and  the  greatest  care, 
could  not  prevent  the  heavy  weight  within  from  wearing  her 
thin,  and  pale,  and  weak.  It  was  the  contrast  of  the  flowering 
and  decaying  time. 

In  the  midst  of  her  dreary  reflections  a  knock  came  at  the 
door,  and  a  cablegram  from  Evra  was  handed  her — a  tender 
message  hoping  she  was  better.  It  might  have  been  the 
thoughts  which  had  previously  occupied  her  mind ;  it  may 
have  been  the  leap  of  her  fluttering  heart,  but  from  the  instant 
her  eyes  glanced  down  the  lines  she  felt  sure  Kent's  tenderness 
had  planned  it.  And  to  Bethesda,  struggling  in  the  toils  of 
conflicting  principles,  and  almost  ready  for  the  renunciation 
of  all  happiness,  it  was  like  a  voice,  a  touch  from  Paradise. 
Her  load  was  inexpressibly  lightened,  and  during  the  evening 
she  looked  lovely  beyond  compare. 

Not  long  after  this  came  her  birthday,  and  both  to  celebrate 
it,  and  because  of  Bethesda's  increasing  fragility,  Agatha  asked 
Margaret  to  visit  her  for  a  fortnight. 

The  joy  of  the  meeting  between  the  sisters  was  tempered 
with  great  sadness,  for  Bethesda  had  failed  steadily.  When 
letters  had  come  from  Mabel,  burdened  with  anxiety  for  both 
soul  and  body,  and  advocating,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  her 
ideas  of  Beth's  duty,  they  had  made  the  weary  woman  per- 
ceptibly weaker.  She  felt  an  imperative  need  for  freedom,  and 
Mrs.  Trescott  constantly  wished  to  guide  and  direct  her,  and 
she  began  to  see  the  impossibility  of  drawing  near  to  one, 
however  affectionate,  who  wishes  to  throw  chains  about  one. 

But  it  had  come  to  the  pass  now  that  nothing  was  of  any 
vital  consequence  to  her  but  integrity  and  the  right.  On  these 
all  her  failing  strength  was  concentrated.  Let  her  questions  be 
decided,  and  then  the  deluge. 

On  her  birthday,  when  Bethesda  was  not  able  to  leave  the 
couch — a  sad  enough  coming  of  age  for  the  beautiful  heiress — 
after  she  had  transacted  considerable  business  and  made  her 
will,  Bethesda  asked  to  be  left  alone  with  Marcot.  He  came 
and  stood  before  her  reverentially. 

"  Marcot,"  said  Bethesda,  "  I  know  you  are  devoted  to  your 
master." 

Marcot  started.  M.  d'Isten  had  given  him  such  strict  in- 
junctions never  to  breathe  a  word  of  his  former  service,  that  he 
supposed  no  one  knew  it. 


240  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

"  I  believe  you  are  also  devoted  to  me,"  Bethesda  pursued 
calmly.  "  I  prove  my  trust  in  you  by  confiding  to  you  this 
letter  to  be  given  to  your  master  when  I  die.  Don't  fail  to 
give  it  into  his  own  hands,  and  let  no  one  know  you  possess 
it,  except  M.  d'Isten.  I  trust  this  to  your  honour,  Marcot." 

"  I  will  give  it  only  into  my  master's,  Monsieur  le  Comte 
d'Isten's  hand,"  said  Marcot  solemnly.  "  I  swear  it  by — 

"  Hush  !  Your  word  is  sufficient.  Only  to  him,  or  to  me, 
if  I  should  ask  it  of  you ;  you  understand  ? " 

"  I  do." 

"  I  wish  you  to  know  also  that  I  have  left  you  a  small  sum 
to  support  you  when  you  are  old,  or  ill,  and  to  be  a  reminder 
of  my  thanks  for  your  faithful  service." 

"I  can  never  thank  you,  dearest  lady,"  exclaimed  the  man, 
the  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  which  he  turned  away  to 
hide. 

"  Don't  weep  for  me,"  said  Bethesda,  with  utmost  gentle- 
ness. "  I  shall  be  happier  if  I  die.  Tell  your  master  so." 

Her  voice,  too,  broke,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  for  him 
to  kiss. 

"You  are  only  fit  for  heaven,"  said  poor  Marcot,  and  he 
left  her  with  the  precious  letter  tightly  buttoned  beneath  his 
vest. 

Rend's  letter  for  her,  the  first  after  the  six  months'  silence, 
came  the  next  day,  a  week  in  advance  of  its  time.  She  laid  it 
aside  unopened.  It  might  settle  her  actions  when  she  came  to 
read  it.  It  did  not  seem  right  to  her  to  forsake  him  utterly, 
yet  Rent's  highest  perception  of  womanhood  was  embodied  in 
her,  and  if  right  claimed  that  s\he  should  be  silent  as  well  as 
invisible  to  him  she  must  accede.  Intuition  told  her  dimly, 
before  she  had  gone  far  enough  to  perceive  it  by  reason,  that 
she  could  not  help  him ;  that  this  last  joy  and  consolation,  as 
many  others,  was  denied  them  by  their  wrong -doing.  They 
must,  she  feared,  expiate  separately.  If  she  only  had  the  real 
hope  that  he  would  expiate  !  but  she  was  afraid  his  conscience 
might  not  awaken  without  her.  Thus  she  was,  in  spite  of 
their  actual  present  divergence,  still  carrying  out  the  principles 
Mrs.  Trescott  had  instilled  into  her  by  education  and  practice ; 
for  she  was  endeavouring  to  occupy  the  same  position  towards 
Rene'  that  Mabel  strove  to  occupy  towards  her,  and  of  which 
she  felt  so  keenly  the  bondage.  The  difference  was  that  Rend 


CHAP.  VI.]  A  COMMAND.  241 

gloried  in  his  obedience,  and  served  willingly  the  conscience  of 
another,  while  Bethesda  found  it  an  unendurable  burden. 

The  night  between  Christmas  Eve  and  Christmas  Day  was 
a  memorable  one  to  Bethesda.  Margaret  had  placed  on  easels 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  two  engravings  ;  one,  a  Holy  Family  by 
Raphael ;  the  other,  of  the  Milan  Cathedral.  Bethesda  lay 
looking  at  them  most  of  the  night.  There  was  a  strange  sense 
of  calm  in  and  around  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  waiting  for 
a  voice  to  speak,  and  it  recalled  the  fancy  she  had  had,  when, 
standing  on  San  Miniato'  in  the  spring  sunshine,  she  had 
listened  to  the  echoes  of  the  church  bells,  losing  themselves  in 
the  purple  Apennines.  Then  it  was  high  noon ;  now  it  was  a 
winter  midnight,  but  the  feeling  was  the  same. 

As  she  lay  in  this  clear-eyed  calm,  thinking  how  marvel- 
lously the  little  beginning  of  the  Holy  Family  had  developed 
into  an  infinite  life,  which,  to  those  who  believed,  filled  heaven, 
and  made  arts,  ethics,  and  religion  blossom  into  fullest  luxuriance 
on  earth,  she  seemed,  without  any  transition,  to  have  it  clear 
in  her  mind  that  she  was  to  abnegate  all  spiritual  control  over 
Rene" ;  that,  as  long  as  their  present  life  separated  them,  they 
were  to  be  separated  absolutely,  with  no  thought  of  further 
communication  beyond  the  letter  she  would  write  to  tell  him 
this. 

She  had  had  this  lesson  still  to  learn :  that  she  was  pre- 
sumptuous in  thinking  through  her  could  come  his  only  aid ; 
that  if  she  did  not  actively  help  him  he  was  lost.  She  knew 
now  that  no  one  can  be  lost  or  saved  except  by  himself;  he 
must  inevitably  sink  or  rise  with  the  meaning  of  his  own  actions. 

Who  was  she,  to  take  the  responsibili ty  of  his  deeds  1  to 
answer  for  him  in  heaven  or  hell  1  Had  he  no  voice  ?  She 
could  but  trust  in  his  nobility,  his  strength,  his  purity.  If 
these  failed  him,  in  so  far  as  these  failed  him,  they  would  be 
eternally  separated.  The  infinite  would  come  between  them. 

It  was  not  so  hard  as  she  had  fancied  to  make  this  ultimate 
sacrifice.  Never  before  had  she  realised  how,  with  the  strong 
desire  to  do  right  comes  the  strength  to  act.  A  few  days  be- 
fore it  had  seemed  to  her  that  life  was  unendurable  without 
active  use  to  him  ;  yet  now  she  felt  upborne.  The  majesty  of 
virtue  !  It  corn-wands  our  obedience,  and  when  we  are  willing 
to  kneel  as  soon  as  the  command  comes,  the  great  king  unveils 
himself. 


242  BETHESDA.  [I-ART  n. 

During  the  following  week  Mabel,  alarmed  by  the  accounts 

received  from  Agatha  and  Margaret,  came  on  to  S .  In  the 

first  interview  they  had  alone,  Bethesda  told  her  aunt  of  her 
decision.  Her  words  were  few,  and  impregnated  with  a  gentle 
weariness,  undisturbed  by  tears,  praises,  and  tears  again,  which 
were  showered  upon  her.  She  seemed  very  far  away  from  it 
all,  and  as  if  she  were  looking  on  something  in  which  she  had 
no  part. 

She  lay  on  the  bed  all  day  lifted  on  numerous  pillows,  her 
face  tired  to  faintness.  Margaret  hovered  around  her  with  un- 
obtrusive attentions,  and  Bethesda  liked  to  have  her  near. 
Hers  was  the  only  presence  which  did  not  weigh  upon  the 
sensitive  woman. 

"  If  you  will  just  let  me  rest,"  she  said  once,  when  the  phy- 
sician came.  "  I  don't  want  anything  but  rest  and  Margaret." 
And  Margaret  banished  the  others  with  more  energy  than  that 
of  which  ordinary  events  would  have  shown  her  capable,  and  con- 
stituted herself  a  sister  of  the  tenderest  charity.  She  thought 
Beth  would  die,  and  when  she  remembered  the  past  months  of 
suffering,  felt  almost  reconciled  to  losing  her.  She  would  soon 
join  her  where  God  would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes. 

Bethesda  lay  thus  all  the  holiday  week,  asking  little,  doing 
nothing  except  to  bear  the  pain  which  steadily  increased. 
Many  flowers  were  sent  her,  and  a  fresh  basket  of  the  loveliest 
roses  was  constantly  on  the  silken  quilt  beside  her,  a  delicate 
attention  from  Mr.  Stanhope.  She  lay  amid  the  flowers  like  a 
snow-drift  in  spring,  stealthily  decreasing  in  strength,  and 
likening  more  and  more  to  its  whiteness.  She  was  quite  passive 
in  mind  and  body  until  New  Year's  Day,  when  she  roused  her- 
self, conscious  that  now  there  was  something  for  her  to  do. 
She  gathered  all  her  strength  for  the  consummation  of  her 
sacrifice.  This  done,  and  she  had  nothing  more  to  think 
about.  Nothing  more.  The  future  from  this  day  was  a  dead 
blank  to  her.  To-day  was  all  she  had  to  live.  To-morrow 
was  beyond  her  thoughts. 

She  early  asked  Margaret  to  bring  her  the  olive-wood  box 
which  contained  Renews  letters,  and  those  she  had  already 
mostly  written,  to  be  sent  to-day.  Then  she  had  asked  her 
sister  to  leave  her,  and  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  as  if  to 
fortify  herself  by  these  sweet  touches. 

When  she  was  alone  she  broke  the  seal  of  Rent's  long- 


CHAP,  vi.]  FINAL  WORDS.  243 

anticipated  letter  slowly.  She  trusted  it  would  be  strong  and 
helpful,  and  yet  she  wished  to  be  prepared  for  any  event.  As 
she  read  it  her  face  gathered  sadness  which  made  her  seem 
a  woman  arrived  at  the  maturity  of  sorrow,  and  as  she  finished 
it  her  hand  was  pressed  close  against  her  heart. 

The  letter  showed  him  blind,  so  blind  !  These  months  had 
apparently  brought  him  nothing  of  growth  or  clear-sight.  He 
had  not  once  questioned  himself  deeply  in  regard  to  their 
relationship.  He  did  not  recognise  that  there  was  anything  to 
question.  He  had  incorporated  his  position  towards  her  into 
an  unquestionable  part  of  his  existence.  He  saw  no  use  in 
examining  with  a  view  to  change  what  was  unchangeable. 
And  the  woman's  heart  felt,  if  her  mind  did  not  yet  recognise, 
that  where  there  is  no  growth,  love  must  die.  It  was  the 
bitterness  of  this  cup  which  she  was  now  drinking. 

He  had  enclosed  a  red  leaf,  the  last  on  the  Virgin  Vine 
which  wreathed  itself  around  her  window,  now  his.  It  recalled 
with  absolute  distinctness  the  many  hours  she  had  spent  kneel- 
ing there.  She  could  see  still  the  solemn  march  of  the  stars 
across  the  violet  sky,  and  feel  again  the  deep  content  which  had 
been  one  of  her  own  strongest  proofs  that  her  position  was  not 
wrong.  So  divine  is  love,  so  high  does  it  spring  above  all 
earthly  stains  to  its  quenchless  source  ! 

He  was  now  in  the  same  position,  under  the  same  influences, 
that  she  was  then.  She  must  remember  this,  and  not  be  iin- 
just,  but  give  him  time. 

With  the  leaf,  holding  the  heart's  blood  of  the  year,  she 
closed  her  journal  for  ever.  It  was  a  fitting  seal  for  the  past. 

She  then  read  over  and  sealed  her  letter  to  Madame  d'Isten. 
As  she  closed  it,  Margaret's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  May  I  come  in  1     I  have  something  for  you." 

It  was  a  cablegram  from  Rene' :  birthday  greetings,  and 
hoping  she  was  well. 

The  very  sweetness  of  this  attention,  this  thoughtfuluess 
which  was  so  sure  a  proof  of  affection,  made  the  task  before  her 
still  bitterer.  But  it  must  be  done.  She  smiled  faintly  as  she 
put  the  open  telegram  in  her  sister's  hand,  and  said  : 

"A  little  longer,  dear;  my  work  is  not  quite  done,"  and 
Margaret  reluctantly  left  her. 

The  letter  to  Rene  was  now  to  be  finished  ;  the  last — the 
very  last.  She  told  him  of  her  change  in  opinions,  and  how  it 


244  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

had  come  about ;  how  she  had  struggled  long,  through  conflicts 
the  deathliness  of  which  she  let  him  guess  that  he  might  be 
aided  to  an  equal  devotion  to  principle ;  and  how  at  last  she 
had  become  convinced  that  their  correspondence  would  be  a  sin. 
The  renunciation  of  it  had  not  been  without  its  consolation,  she 
told  him;  for  if  our  greatest  desire  is  to  live  rightly,  truth 
becomes  sweeter  and  dearer  to  us  than  any  error  possibly  can  be. 

Then  she  spoke  to  him  of  his  wife  ;  of  how  her  aunt  had 
told  her  that  Madame  d'Isten  was  in  a  precarious  position, 
tempted  to  do  wrong  on  every  side,  and  that  he  had  granted 
all  her  desires,  however  repugnant  to  himself.  She  recalled 
how  they  had  once  named  him  an  "  ideal  husband,"  but  said, 
that  since  she  had  thought  more,  she  realised  he  failed  with  his 
wife,  as  they  had  with  one  another,  in  not  holding  principle 
highest  of  all.  Where  persons  were  to  be  sacrificed,  he  was 
generous  in  sacrificing  himself;  but  principles  should  never  be 
sacrificed  to  any  person.  No  happiness  is  so  necessary  as 
nobility.  Indulgence  is  not  always  laudable.  Instead  of  per- 
mitting any  intercourse,  even  of  the  slightest,  between  his  wife 
and  her  former  lover,  he  should  endeavour  to  prevent  it  with 
all  his  force.  "Hurt  her,  no  matter  how  deeply,"  wrote 
Bethesda ;  "  cut  away  her  dearest  wishes,  but  do  not  let  her 
remain  in  the  atmosphere  of  sin."  He  should  be  severe  with 
himself  as  with  her ;  severe  with  her  as  with  himself.  Gener- 
osity may  be  weak  ;  mercy  also ;  clear-sighted  justice  should  be 
the  foundation  of  our  actions.  To  his  wife  he  could  give  aid ; 
her  he  could  serve  by  active  use,  but  he  and  Bethesda  must 
bear  the  consequences  of  their  past  in  complete  separation. 
Their  lives  would  bring  their  consequences  in  the  future  as  well 
as  the  present.  Like  mingles  with  like  throughout  life  and 
immortality,  and  so  their  lives  would  join  or  divide  as  they 
were  similar  or  dissimilar. 

To  this  letter  Bethesda  now  added  a  few  grateful  lines  for 
his  good  wishes,  and  ended  with  the  words,  "  I  trust  you." 

She  said  them  over  and  over  to  herself  as  she  sealed  the 
letter,  and  in  it  her  hopes,  her  life  itself.  She  had  fought  hard  ; 
she  had  thus  far  conquered.  She  had  made  her  sxipreme 
renunciation  to  the  cold  but  complaint-hushing  majesty  of  virtue. 
That  it  was  right  was  sufficient ;  but  she  could  not  help  feeling 
what  a  consolation  it  would  be  to  know  the  tenderness  of  religion, 
and  to  do  right  because  God  willed 


CHAP,  vii.]  JOYOUS  ANTICIPATIONS.  245 

What  remained  now  but  death  ? 

"  Margaret ! "  came  the  heart's  quick  cry,  and  her  sister 
was  in  the  room  the  same  instant. 

When  Marcot  brought  word  that  the  letters  were  registered 
and  mailed  Bethesda  let  herself  sink  back  on  the  pillows,  and, 
as  Margaret  bent  to  kiss  her  : 

"  Good-night,  dear,"  she  said,  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

"  Love  is  a  distinction  of  two,  who  yet,  for  each  other,  are  simply  not 
distinguished.  ...  I  have  my  self-consciousness  in  another,  not  in  my- 
self ;  yet  it  is  another  in  which  alone  I  am  Satisfied  and  at  peace  with 
myself.  .  .  .  This  perceiving,  this  feeling,  this  cognising  of  unity  is  love. " 

HEGEL. 

"  There  are  in  the  world  but  two  loves — the  love  of  self  extending  to 
the  contempt  of  God,  and  the  love  of  God  extending  to  the  contempt  of 
self." — ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

BETHESDA'S  letter  reached  Rene'  one  day  in  January  as  he  was 
about  to  go  to  the  ministere.  He  turned  back  to  his  room, 
the  one  she  had  occupied,  where  a  cheery  fire  was  burning,  and 
every  article  of  furniture,  every  breath  of  air,  seemed  to  wel- 
come him  in  the  name  of  his  beloved.  How  good  she  was  to 
be  thus  always  beside  him.  How  many  men  would  wish  to  be 
in  his  place,  feeling  themselves  watched  over  by  the  tenderness 
of  so  incomparable  a  woman  ! 

He  seated  himself  in  the  wine-red  fauteuil,  where  her  dainty 
form  had  often  been  luxuriously  supported,  and  took  from  the 
locked  drawer  of  the  desk  her  picture,  which  he  turned  towards 
him  and  regarded  with  joyous  expectation. 

"  Thou  hast  written,"  he  cried.  "  Once  more  naught  is 
between  us.  Thou  art  my  Be'thesda  ! " 

He  touched  the  letter  to  forehead,  lips,  and  breast  before 
opening  it  with  Oriental  homage,  as  if  to  pledge  his  whole  being 
to  her  anew,  and  then  he  broke  the  seal. 

Three  hours  later  he  still  sat  staring  at  the  pages  in  his 
hands. 

Yet  the  dethronement  of  all  his  ideal  hopes  had  not  come 
upon  him  with  the  suddenness  Bethesda  had  anticipated. 


246  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

During  the  months  of  silence  between  them  he  had,  with  his 
usual  foresight,  attempted  to  face  every  possibility,  and  adapt 
his  possible  codes  of  action  to  the  various  manners  in  which 
Bethesda  might  write.  In  hearing  of  her  failing  health,  and 
seeing  Mrs.  Trescott's  increased  rancour  towards  him,  he  under- 
stood'the  battle  Bethesda  was  fighting,  and  had  tried  to  follow 
her  by  guesses,  some  approximating  the  truth,  some  as  distant 
as  the  poles  from  the  reality.  By  dint  of  these  imaginings  he 
had  fancied  he  was  prepared  to  face  anything,  from  a  burst  of 
warm  sunshine  to  a  temporary  eclipse ;  but  the  complete  sacrifice 
she  asked  was  a  renunciation  surpassing  any  he  had  dreamed 
of  making. 

Once  recognising  her  unbiassed  will,  however,  it  became  his 
sole  possible  course.  He  never  thought  of  combating  her 
decision ;  he  accepted  it  as  supreme  and  inviolable.  His  sub- 
mission was  not  easy;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  inexpressibly 
hard.  He  read  over  and  over  again  her  words  with  dry,  burning 
eyes;  with  an  agony  of  sorrow  that  bliss  was  denied  them 
both  ;  with  a  bitter  outcry  against  fate ;  but  always  with  entire 
obedience  to  her. 

Had  any  one  praised  or  blamed  him  then,  he  would  have 
looked  at  the  speaker  in  bewilderment  and  said  simply : 

"  How  can  I  do  differently  1     Do  I  not  love  her  1 " 

Such  obedience  to  what  is  accepted  as  the  highest,  such 
devotion  to  what  one  beloved  asks,  is  perhaps  the  most  perfect 
of  all  foundations  for  nobility  of  character.  In  this  Reno 
d'lsten's  nature  was  of  the  finest  feminine  fibre, — as  prayer  is 
feminine,  as  the  Church  is  said  to  be  the  bride  of  Christ, — but 
it  was  also  feminine  in  that  it  obeyed  and  followed  where 
Bethesda  reasoned  and  led.  This  was  not  altogether  wrong. 
The  two  had  in  some  ways  interchanged  their  attributes,  as 
all  men  and  women  must  at  certain  periods.  It  is  a  woman's 
place  to  be  a  lawgiver  in  family  relations,  as  it  is  a  man's  in 
politics  and  science.  It  is  a  woman's  place  to  lead  in  spiritual 
things,  in  fine  perceptions  of  truth,  in  the  chiselling  of  life,  as 
it  is  a  man's  to  lead  in  hewing  out  the  strong  blocks  of  insti- 
tutions which  build  up  the  world.  Woman  must  be  in  many 
instances  conservative  and  discriminating,  where  man  can  be 
audacious  and  radical ;  but  it  is  only  as  all  these  feminine  and 
masculine  qualities  modify  one  another  by  interadoption  that 
the  perfect  human  being  ensues. 


CHAP,  vii.]  OBEDIENCE.  247 

Now  Rene'  was  far  from  perfect.  His  obedience  was  not 
to  God  nor  right,  but  to  the  creature  he  loved  best.  He  had 
himself  said  of  the  ardent  phrases  which  Thomas  a  Kempis 
addresses  to  the  lover  of  his  soul,  "I  could  sooner  say  that 
to  my  friends  than  to  God."  And  now  his  words  were  verified. 
Had  it  been  possible  for  him  to  imagine  Bethesda  commanding 
him  to  do  something  wrong,  as  now  she  did  the  right,  he  knew 
he  would  have  obeyed,  trusting  her  beyond  himself.  And  he 
did  at  present.  He  could  not  see  the  wickedness  of  exchanging 
letters  with  the  purest  woman  he  had  ever  known,  but  since 
she  said  so  he  would  think  it  so. 

The  suppressed  anguish  within  him  at  last,  however,  drove 
him  to  restless  pacing  of  the  room.  A  thirst  for  a  sight  of  her, 
for  a  glance  into  her  eyes,  for  a  touch  from  her  hand,  was  so 
extreme  that  his  brain  reeled.  To  make  this  renunciation 
visibly  with  her,  to  have  palpable  contact  at  least  long  enough 
to  separate, — these  were  his  maddening  thoughts. 

He  tore  open  his  cravat  and  leaned  far  out  of  the  window, 
where  the  leafless  vines  were  rubbing  dully  against  the  wall. 
The  bleak  wind  around  his  head  was  balmy  in  comparison  to 
the  icy  doom  upon  him.  He  drew  back  with  a  groan,  and  took 
her  picture  in  both  hands  and  looked  into  the  steady  eyes  with 
a  wild  intensity. 

"  Never  to  see  thee  again  1 "  he  muttered.  "  Never  to  hear 
thy  voice  ?  Never  to  touch  thy  hand  1  Ah,  how  cruel  is  God  ! 
It  would"  be  so  little  to  him,  so  much  to  me — to  us  !  For  thou 
lovest  me,  Esda.  Each  word  of  thy  earnest  sentences  is  pressed 
full  of  tenderness.  And  God  to  destroy  such  love !  But  it 
cannot  be  destroyed  !  It  will  endure  !  it  shall  endure  !  In 
spite  of  the  world  and  time  and  death,  we  shall  be  united 
somewhere  !" 

He  had  raised  his  hand  as  if  taking  an  oath  ;  now  slowly  it 
fell  to  his  side,  and  before  her  picture  he  dropped  to  his  knees. 

"  Help  me,  Bdthesda,  as  thou  hast  done.  Thou  art  a  saint 
and  holy ;  thou  raisest  me  with  thee.  We  cannot  be  disunited. 
We  will  be  true  to  one  another  for  ever.  So  help  me  God  and 
Esda!" 

He  rose  with  a  reverential  quietude  in  his  manner,  and 
adjusted  his  dress,  and  took  his  hat  to  go  out ;  but  he  turned 
as  he  reached  the  door,  hot  tears  standing  in  his  eyes.  The 
contrast  between  the  incoming  and  the  outgoing  was  excruciat- 


248  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

ing.  He  faltered,  then  flung  his  hat  aside,  and  fell  down  before 
the  red  chair,  burying  his  face  in  it,  while  his  form  was  con- 
vulsed with  hard  sobs. 

He  looked  years  older  when  he  finally  stood  erect  again,  and 
his  eyes  were  sunken  and  dull.  He  pulled  his  hat  down  over 
them  and  went  out,  this  time  without  turning  back.  A  long  walk 
somewhat  re-established  his  equipoise,  and  with  it  came  a  great 
compassion  for  her  who  had  been  obliged  to  transfix  her  own 
heart  in  thus  stabbing  his.  He  went  rapidly  to  the  Bourse  and 
sent  the  following  cable  message  : — 

"  Thy  will  is  my  law." 

Invigorated  by  this  he  returned  to  his  hotel,  and  wrote  to 
Louise  in  the  spirit  that  Bethesda  had  commanded.  He  asked 
his  wife  to  come  to  him,  saying  that  he  had  committed  errors 
as  great  as  hers,  but  not  greater,  and  that  he  believed  it  was 
their  duty  to  help  one  another,  resigning  themselves  to  the  bond 
which  united  them,  and  endeavouring  to  strengthen  and  ennoble 
each  other's  lives.  He  spoke  clearly  but  tenderly  of  the  tempta- 
tions which  he  knew  assailed  her,  and  asked  her  to  think 
seriously  before  she  again  refused  to  come  to  him.  He  told  her 
that  an  angel  from  heaven  had  given  him  new  light,  which  he 
asked  her  to  share,  so  that  they  might  strive  towards  the  right 
together. 

He  wrote  with  a  profound  sadness,  and,  he  thought,  as  pro- 
found a  resignation ;  but,  when  the  letter  was  done,  he  turned 
to  Bethesda's  former  letters  with  an  elan  of  desperation  which 
was  thoroughly  characteristic  of  the  man. 

Outwardly,  in  actions,  in  words,  in  appearance  even  to  him- 
self, he  bent  to  the  inevitable  with  a  pliancy  which  was  as  far 
removed  from  weakness  as  is  that  of  a  finely-tempered  steel 
blade.  But  deep  within  him  at  times  there  came  a  fierce  revul- 
sion, a  snapping  back  of  the  defiant  sword,  which  shocked  his 
whole  physical  and  psychical  system,  and  left  him  tingling  with 
a  surcharge  of  electric  force.  This  was  his  condition  now.  Had 
the  chivalric  spirit  within  him  been  restored  to  the  chivalric 
era  whence  it  descended,  he  would,  in  this  mood,  have  traversed 
lands  and  seas,  and  won  the  woman  he  loved  at  the  point  of  the 
sword,  regardless  of  all  laws  save  those  of  force  and  love. 

But  the  woman  he  loved  did  not  belong  to  that  era.  She 
was  essentially  modern, — that  is,  endowed  with  the  supremacy 
of  mind  over  matter,  of  morality  over  desire,  of  thought  over 


CHAP,  vii.]  UNITY.  249 

action ;  and  he  recognised  that,  did  he  have  her  in  his  power, 
did  he  hold  her  never  so  close,  the  gulf  between  them  would  be 
only  widened,  implacable,  absolute.  His  sole  power  of  bridging 
it  was  in  yielding,  and  drawing  near  to  her,  above  the  physical, 
in  the  same  spirit  as  that  which  possessed  her,  thus  annihilating 
space,  and  making  them  to  stand  side  by  side,  heart  touching 
heart,  in  spite  of  distance  and  silence. 

The  fierce  ancestral  ultraism  was  exorcised,  and  he  cleaved 
with  new  strength  to  his  allegiance.  He  again  took  out  her 
last  letter  and  pored  over  it,  weighing  every  sentence,  and  read- 
ing to  the  subtlest  feather  touch  of  feeling  between  the  lines. 

She  was  crushing  her  heart  down  under  the  weight  of  rigid 
law,  before  which  she  had  laid  herself  and  him  as  before  a 
Juggernaut,  looking  with  calm  but  unutterably  sad  eyes  at  the 
advance  of  the  deity  to  whom  all  sacrifices  were  due.  His  dar- 
ling ?  His  Esda  1  Was  her  delicate,  sensitive  nature  thus  to 
be  mangled  and  he  stand  by  motionless  ?  Horrible  !  But — 
and  the  thought  made  him  seat  himself  again  whence  he  had 
risen  with  fury — it  was  her  will,  it  was  her  command,  and  they 
were  but  one.  What  she  did  he  did,  as  by  a  law  of  nature. 

The  next  day  Rend  was  writing  an  answer — his  final  words 
— to  Be'thesda,  when  several  letters  were  brought  him  from 
Louise.  He  had  received  none  for  some  time,  as  floods  had 
interfered  with  postal  arrangements. 

Before  receiving  Bethesda's  letter  he  had  written  to  Louise 
with  veiled  suggestions,  and  had  quoted  several  things  Bethesda 
had  admired.  In  one  of  the  letters  now  before  him  Louise  said 
these  remarks  had  inspired  her  with  the  wish  to  be  near  him, 
protected  from  herself  by  him,  and  she  had  resolved  to  leave 
the  following  week  for  Paris.  On  further  thought,  however, 
she  had  concluded  to  spare  him  this  derangement  of  his  life, 
and  the  annoyance  she  might  cause  him.  This  was  the  last 
time,  she  wrote,  that  she  would  speak  of  her  troubles ;  not  that 
she  should  cease  to  be  frank,  but  because  there  would  soon  be 
an  end  of  this  for  her.  She  begged  him  to  think  of  her  with 
compassion  on  the  day  when  her  lover  was  to  be  transferred  to 
another  province,  and  yet  not  to  be  sorrowful,  for  she  would 
soon  be  no  longer  in  danger  of  soiling  his  name  and  honour. 

What  did  it  mean1?  The  letter  was  the  gentlest 'he  had 
ever  received  from  her.  Was  she  decided  on  entering  a  con- 
vent, of  which  she  had  often  spoken  1  Or  was  she  again  think- 


250  BETHESDA.  [PART  IT. 

ing  of  suicide  ?  Or  did  she  simply  wish  to  imply  that  with  her 
lover's  departure  she  would  be  no  longer  tempted  ? 

This  was  the  most  probable,  but  the  others  were  quite  pos- 
sible. She  was  of  an  unreasonable  cast  of  mind,  and  prone  to 
follow  every  impulse.  What  would  have  been  Be'thesda's  advice 
were  she  there  now  ?  He  quickly  decided,  and  sent  Lotu'se  a 
despatch  saying  that  an  important  letter  had  crossed  hers,  and 
for  her  to  do  nothing  until  she  received  it,  unless  it  was  to 
come  to  him,  which  would  greatly  gratify  him.  Then  he  wrote 
testifying  his  sympathy,  and  forgiving  her  freely,  saying  he  also 
had  need  of  forgiveness,  and  urging  her  to  come  to  him. 

There  are  few  men  who  demand  of  themselves  as  much  as 
they  do  of  their  wives,  and  who  consider  that  a  sin  is  as  great 
in  a  man  as  a  woman.  It  was  one  of  the  best  traits  of  Rend 
d'Isten's  character  that  he  had  given  himself  even  less  liberty 
than  he  had  accorded  to  Louise,  and  that  now  he  was  quick  in 
acknowledging  his  fault  as  grave  as  hers,  although  there  were 
not  as  many  months  in  his  error  as  there  were  years  in  hers, 
and  many  circumstances  which  had  seemed  to  purify  his  connec- 
tion with  Be'thesda  were  lacking  in  Madame  d'Isten's  situation. 
Although  Kene"  d'Isten  had  fallen  from  the  ideal  of  stainless 
purity,  which  was  now  being  developed  in  him  through  Be'th- 
esda, many  men  would  be  bettered  if  they  did  no  worse.  It 
was  his  consciousness  of  this  which  had  assured  him  of  his  power 
to  be  "unlike  other  men."  He  had  at  least  lived  up  to  the 
intellectual  perception  of  purity  which  he  had  gained  through 
his  wife's  experience,  and  now  he  was  advancing  ahead  of  it 
and  of  her. 

When  he  returned  to  his  letter  to  Be'thesda  he  told  her 
what  had  occurred,  and  added  :  '»My  life  shall  be  spent  in  ful- 
filling thy  desires.  God  sent  me  Be'thesda  as  one  of  his  heavenly 
host  in  the  hour  of  great  need.  Without  her  what  would  I 
have  been?  When  the  devil  tempts  me  a  voice  from  the 
depths  of  my  conscience  calls  :  '  Be'thesda  ! '  and  the  temptation 
flees.  When  I  wish  help  and  advice  I  think :  '  What  would 
Be'thesda  say?'  and  my  mind  becomes  clear.  When  I  need 
strength  to  follow  the  dictates  of  wisdom  I  invoke  thee  to  aid 
me." 

It  seemed  more  than  he  could  do,  more  than  strength  would 
allow,  to  send  away  this  letter, — this  acquiescence  in  a  lot 
which  was  torture  ;  this  ultimate,  final  word.  But  "  Be'thesda 


CHAP,  vii.]  A  VISION.  251 

wills ! "  came  up  from  his  heart,  and  he  accepted  what  was 
decreed  by  her  beloved  hand. 

The  letter  was  registered  and  sent,  and  then  he  succumbed 
to  a  morne  despair.  It  lasted  all  the  long  night ;  but  Rend 
knew  too  well  the  vital  necessity  of  equilibrium  to  let  himself 
be  thrown  from  it  without  a  straggle.  There  are  some  natures 
to  whom  this  centre  of  gravity  is  more  necessary  than  to  others. 
To  lose  it  means  to  them  to  lose  sanity,  an  irretrievable  loss. 
Others  can  be  pushed  down  on  either  side,  can  be  crushed 
almost  in  their  fall,  and  yet  regain,  even  retain,  mental  action. 
Such  was  one  of  the  differences  between  Rend  and  Bdthesda. 

In  the  icy  dawn  Rend  walked  swiftly  down  the  Champs 
Elysees — bitter  mockery  ! — and  on  and  on  interminably.  As 
he  reached  a  church  where  he  had  once  been  with  Bdthesda 
early  Mass  was  just  beginning,  and  the  organ  notes  seemed  to 
summon  him  to  enter.  He  went  in.  There  were  few  present, 
only  some-  working  girls,  thin  and  worn,  who,  in  the  midst  of 
this  great  sceptical  city,  had  risen  early  to  have  a  word  of  com- 
fort before  proceeding  to  their  dreary  drudgery. 

M.  d'Isten  stopped  just  inside  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  but 
little  reverence  in  his  heart.  At  a  side  altar  near  him  a  young 
priest  was  droning  through  the  service  in  an  uninterested 
monotone.  The  church  was  close,  and  chill,  and  dark.  It  all 
seemed  to  him  senseless  frippery  and  affectation.  One  touch,  a 
single  breath  from  the  lips  of  his  beloved,  would  mean  so 
infinitely  more  to  him,  and  this  God  denied  him.  He  turned 
to  go.  Just  then  there  flashed  the  first  level  sunbeam  through 
the  painted  window  against  the  pillar  where  Bdthesda  had 
stood  months  before.  The  golden  light  in  the  dark  church 
might  have  easily  been  mistaken  for  the  visible  glory  around 
the  head  of  a  saint. 

Rend  sank  on  his  knees.  His  eyes  were  fixed  with  wide 
intensity  on  the  yellow  sunshine,  and,  as  plainly,  he  saw  the 
shining  masses  of  hair,  the  pearly  brow,  the  deep  eyes  which 
looked  at  him,  which  held  him,  which  shone  through  him  with 
an  unspeakable  tenderness  and  bravery.  They  quelled  each 
rebellious  thought,  every  element  of  despair,  and  left  him,  as 
the  vision  dissolved,  resigned. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  rose.  There  were  a  dozen 
pairs  of  curious  eyes  upon  him,  but  he  did  not  notice  them. 
They  saw  him  drop  several  Napoleons  into  the  aumoniere,  and 


252  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

go  out  into  the  now  sunny  street  with  a  lightened  step.  He 
had  lifted  the  burden  God  and  Esda  had  given  him  to  bear 
with  a  heartfelt  peace.  The  two  were  the  same  to  his  mind 
for  the  time.  Obedience  to  the  one  meant  now,  at  least, 
submission  to  the  other. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  The  aim  of  life  is  action,  not  a  thought. " — CARLYLE. 

"  How  strangely  fair 

Yon  round  still  star  !  which  looks  half-suffering  from, 
And  half-rejoicing  in  its  own  strong  fire, 
Making  itself  a  lonelihood  of  light." 

ON  returning  to  his  rooms  Rene"  d'Isten  found  no  small  event 
to  try  his  new-found  tranquillity.  A  telegram  from  Louise 
awaited  him,  demanding  that  he  should  come  to  her.  She  had 
received  a  letter  from  America,  and  was  ill. 

The  news  alarmed  and  angered  him.  Had  Mrs.  Trescott 
taken  it  upon  herself  to  interfere  ?  This  was  too  much.  There 
was  no  saying  what  awaited  him,  or  where  it  would  end. 
Complications  were  entangling  themselves  around  him.  He 
was  unprepared  for  this,  and  it  was  singularly  distasteful  to 
him.  He  strenuously  objected  to  disturbance  of  regulated 
actions,  or,  if  anything  was  to  be  changed,  he  wished  to  have 
the  master -hand  in  the  matter.  This  surprise,  thus  sprung 
upon  him  where  his  position  was  weakest,  annoyed  him 
extremely.  He  did  not  think  of  it  as  a  possibility,  in  these 
first  moments,  that  Bethesda  was  the  one  who  had  written  to 
Louise. 

But  even  if  she  had — for  he  came  to  this  at  last — it  was 
not  her  place  to  have  taken  such  a  responsibility,  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  their  whole  acquaintance,  he  was  thoroughly  out 
of  sympathy  with  an  action  which  perhaps  was  hers.  He 
was  willing  to  leave  the  guiding  of  his  life,  his  happiness  or 
misery,  in  Be'thesda's  hands ;  but  when  she  came  into  the  rela- 
tions between  him  and  his  wife,  from  the  wife's  side,  she  over- 
looked limits  which  she  ought  to  have  seen  and  regarded. 

How  often  do  men  argue  in  the  same  manner  with  their 


CHAP,  viii.]  KEVULSION.  253 

submission  to  God !  The  parallel  is  not  irreverent  here,  for,  to 
Rene'  d'Isten,  Bethesda  at  this  time  practically  represented 
God.  He  submitted  to  her  decrees,  threw  his  heart  before  her, 
laid  himself  at  her  feet  in  profound  humility,  he  thought ;  but 
there  were  some  conditions  with  which  she  must  not  interfere 
unless  she  wished  him  to  rebel,  and  here  was  one  of  these. 
Yet,  perhaps,  could  Bethesda  have  seen  him  during  these 
moments  of  anger  and  severe  blame  of  her,  she  might  have 
bravely  recognised  that  this  was  what  she  had  aimed  at,  for 
in  truth  she  was  detaching  him  from  herself,  and  attaching 
him  to  the  place  where  his  duty  lay,  and  thus  her  end  was 
being  accomplished. 

He  sent  a  telegram  to  Louise  saying  he  would  start  that 
night,  and  for  her  to  trust  in  him.  Then  he  went  to  the 
ministere,  where  he  found  some  trouble  in  gaining  leave  of 
absence,  and  in  the  evening  threw  himself  into  the  express  with 
the  determination  to  resist  all  intrusions,  and  arrange  his  life 
to  suit  himself.  He  was  worn  out ;  his  nerves  were  unstrung 
with  the  tense  strain  of  severe  and  conflicting  emotions ;  but, 
as  the  train  whirled  him  through  the  dark  land,  and  all  volun- 
tary motion  was  unnecessary,  he  seemed  to  leave  his  body 
resting  in  the  corner,  while  his  mind  was  free  and  active.  In 
this  state,  in  the  solitary  silence  of  the  carriage,  with  the  stars 
looking  down,  better  thoughts  came  to  him. 

If  Mrs.  Trescott  had  done  this — why,  that  was  one  thing, 
and  he  clearly  had  a  right  to  be  indignant ;  but  if  Bdthesda,  his 
Esda,  had  written  to  Louise — that  was  quite  a  different  affair. 
What  would  she  have  written  ?  What  would  have  been  her 
reasons  for  writing  at  all  1 

He  took  out  her  letter,  and  re-read  it.  Why  she  should 
have  written  was  still  a  mystery,  but,  if  she  had  written,  it  prob- 
ably was  to  try  and  bring  Louise  to  him,  as  here  in  this  letter 
she  had  tried  to  take  him  to  Louise. 

Would  a  woman  who  loved  do  that  ?  Could  she  ?  Was 
jealousy  so  far  removed  from  even  the  saintliest  feminine  breast 
as  to  desire  and  work  to  the  end  of  being  replaced  ?  Impos- 
sible !  And  yet,  if  any  woman  could  do  it,  that  woman  would 
be  Be'thesda.  He  could  imagine  her  standing  between  him 
and  Louise,  and  joining  their  hands,  with  a  far-away  tenderness 
in  her  deep  eyes. 

Bah  !     He  was  idealising  her  too  far !     He  was  making 


254  BETHESDA.  [I-AKT  n. 

her  into  a  bloodless  angel,  not  a  clinging,  devoted,  impassioned 
woman,  such  as  he — no  one  so  well ! — had  known  her. 

But  if  it  were  Be'thesda  who  had  written,  which  he  more 
and  more  inclined  to  believe,  this  should  be  the  end  towards 
which  he  would  work.  He  would  show  Louise  that  the  altera- 
tion Be'thesda  had  made  in  him  was  all  for  the  better,  that  he 
had  gained  a  new  strength  under  her  influence,  and  was  now, 
at  her  wish,  ready  to  sacrifice  a  great  and  innocent  happiness 
which  might  offend  Louise. 

"  Ah,  beloved  !  "  he  exclaimed,  smiling  softly.  "  Not  thus 
canst  thou  detach  me.  So  long  as  I  live  nobly,  it  will  be  hand- 
in-hand  with  thee." 

When  he  reached  M his  anxieties  were  on  the  alert, 

but  outwardly  he  was  calm ;  perhaps  even  a  trifle  more  un- 
ruffled than  usual.  He  kissed  the  hand  of  his  mother-in-law, 
who  met  him  with  a  sharp  interrogation  in  her  eyes ;  asked 
after  his  wife's  health  with  solicitude,  and,  learning  that  she 
was  no  better,  and  almost  delirious  with  desire  to  see  him, 
excused  himself  instantly,  and  went  to  her  apartments. 

Louise  was  in  the  somewhat  untidy,  though  luxurious 
boudoir,  lying  on  a  sofa  in  a  negligee  of  crimson  wool,  over 
which  her  hair  fell  in  stray  locks  that  gave  her  a  gipsy-like 
appearance.  Her  handsome  face  was  disfigured  with  weeping, 
and,  beneath  that,  an  habitual  expression  of  discontent.  Her 
mouth  was  unpossessed  and  trembling,  and,  as  she  saw  Rene', 
she  rose  impetuously  and  fell  upon  his  neck  with  a  sudden 
cry  of — 

"  My  husband  !  my  husband  ! " 

Never  had  he  been  so  warmly  greeted  by  her,  and  it  was 
with  sadness  that  he  thought  what  joy  such  a  welcome  would 
at  one  tune  have  given  him.  Now  it  was  too  late. 

He  supported  her,  however,  with  a  firm  tenderness,  and 
gradually  made  her  more  composed  by  reassuring  words.  He 
prevailed  upon  her  to  sit  down  at  last,  and  placed  himself 
beside  her.  Even  as  he  did  so  a  rumpled  letter,  half-hidden 
among  the  pillows,  and  bearing  the  well-known  characters  of 
Be'thesda's  handwriting,  caught  his  eyes. 

It  was  from  her,  then.  The  thought  steadied  him.  The 
consistency  of  Be'thesda's  character  made  it  possible  for  him  to 
repose  upon  her.  With  Mabel  the  opposite  would  have  been 
the  case,  and  the  reasons  equally  good. 


CHAP,  viil.]  A  LETTER.  255 

Louise,  quick  to  see  now,  noticed  his  glance,  and  instantly 
seized  the  obnoxious  letter,  and  thrust  it  into  his  hands. 

"  Read  it  ! "  she  cried,  with  a  passionate  wail  in  her  voice. 
"  Tell  me  if  it  is  tme.  Who  is  this  woman  who  writes  to  me 
so  authoritatively?  What  has  she  to  do  with  me,  or  I  with  her1?" 

She  had  caught  his  arm,  and  was  leaning  forward  to  look 
in  his  face  with  wild  eyes. 

"  Let  me  read  it  first,"  was  the  gentle  answer. 

"  No  !  no  !  tell  me  first.  I  cannot  wait  longer.  Who  is 
this  '  Bethesda  Hamilton '  1  See  !  there  is  the  name  signed. 
Now,  who  is  she  1 " 

There  was  a  fiery  rebuke  in  her  eyes,  but  he  met  them 
without  fear.  After  a  moment's  steady  gaze  he  said  slowly  : 

"  Do  you  forget  what  I  told  you  of  a  literary  correspond- 
ence with  Miss  Hamilton  1  I  will  add  this  now :  She  is  the 
noblest  of  women,  and  she  is  your  and  my  best  friend." 

"  Ah,  my  Rene" !  my  husband  !  do  not  say  that ! "  cried  Louise, 
throwing  herself  back  in  despair ;  "  she  too  says  it,  she  too  ! 
and  now  you  confirm  her  ! — Am  I  then  nothing  to  you  ? " 

She  tried  to  draw  herself  up  haughtily  at  these  last  words, 
but  he  laid  his  hand  over  hers  and  said  in  a  low  tone  : 

"  Thou  art  my  wife,  Louise ;  thou  must  remember  that. 
We  must  always  be  much  to  one  another." 

"Must !"  exclaimed  Louise,  with  bitterness.  "No,  it  is 
not  necessary.  I  can  free  myself — and  you." 

"  Not  without  crime,"  said  Rend  in  a  distinct  whisper. 

She  shrank  away  from  him  appalled. 

"  Read  the  letter,"  she  said ;   "  we  will  talk  afterwards." 

She  sat  and  scanned  his  face  as  he  read.  He  did  not 
hasten ;  he  wished  to  be  well  permeated  with  the  spirit  of 
Be'thesda. 

She  was  in  truth  the  angel  he  had  dreamed,  only  far  sur- 
passing his  vision  in  compassionate  tenderness  and  pathos.  It 
was  no  bloodless  saint  who  wrote  this,  but  one  whose  blood 
became  the  wine  of  life  to  others. 

"Well?"  said  Louise  impatiently,  as  she  saw  his  eyes 
reach  and  linger  on  the  end. 

"Did  I  not  speak  truth?"  he  answered  with  a  proud  and 
reverential  tone. 

"  How  V  asked  Louise  defiantly. 

"  Hast  thou  once  thought,  Louise,  of  what  this  letter  meant 


256  BETHESDA.  [I-ART  n. 

to  her  1  Hast  thou  thought  what  she  takes  from  herself  to 
offer  to  thee  ?  She  has  told  you  nothing  but  the  truth,  and 
the  whole  truth.  She  held  the  destinies  of  my  life  in  her 
hand,  and  for  you,  on  your  account  alone,  Louise,  she  has 
sacrificed  herself  and  me.  She  has  given  up  all  the  innocent 
happiness  we  might  have  had  without  infringing  your  rights, 
but  which  she  feared  might  offend  you.  Further, — listen  a 
moment,  Louise, — further,  she  speaks  to  you  as  to  a  sister ; 
she  asks  you  to  let  her  be  a  sister  to  you.  She  has  sympathy 
with  you  and  a  heart  full"  of  compassion,  but  she  knows  also 
what  is  right,  and  she  is  too  humble  to  think  herself  stronger 
than  others,  and  so  expects  them  to  do  whatever  right  may 
demand.  Ah,  it  is  hard,  Louise  !  She  knows  it,  and  I  know 
it.  But  to  noble  natures  it  is  possible.  She  knows  thou  hast 
much  nobility,  for  I  also  spoke  the  truth,  and  you  see  she 
appeals  to  that  nobility  in  you.  She  desires,  she  yearns  to 
help  you  to  overcome  temptation  and  sorrow.  She  sees  that  it 
is  right  for  you  and  me  to  be  united,  and  she  tries  to  make  us 
happier  for  her  coming  into  our  lives.  This  is  the  angel  who 
shed  a  new  light  on  my  path.  She  has,  I  know  well,  already 
made  me  a  better  and  a  truer  husband  to  you,  Louise.  Let 
her  help  you  also.  She  says  here,  see,  that  there  is  no  happiness 
which  would  be  so  great  to  her  as  to  aid  you  in  carrying  your 
burdens,  or  in  relieving  you  from  them.  She  would  be  willing 
to  carry  the  burdens  of  the  whole  world  to  help  others  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed in  an  irrepressible  outburst.  Then  calming;  "Louise, 
my  wife,  why  should  this  letter,  so  brave,  so  gentle,  have  caused 
a  tumult  in  your  soul,  except  because  you  know  she  advises  you 
rightly?  During  the  seven  years  that  we  have  been  married, 
you  will  acknowledge  that  I  have  not  complained.  Neither 
do  I  now.  Let  this  letter  commence  a  new  era  in  our  lives, 
Louise.  We  have  both  erred ;  we  both  need  forgiveness.  I 
give  you  mine  freely ;  give  me  yours,  and  let  us  walk  together 
towards  where  this  saint's  hand  points." 

Louise  d'Isten  was  melted  and  silenced,  she  knew  not  how. 
The  something  new  in  her  husband  produced  a  profound  im- 
pression upon  her.  The  modulations  of  his  voice  stirred  her 
strangely ;  its  reticent  sadness,  its  dignified  contrition  touched 
the  barren  rock  of  self-pity  into  a  gushing,  if  momentary, 
fountain  of  sorrow  for  another. 

She  struggled  with  her  tears  a  few  moments  in  silence. 


CHAP,  vin.]  STRIFE.  257 

Then  she  turned  and  buried  her  face  on  her  husband's  breast, 
and  clung  to  him  with  an  entirely  new  yearning.  He  held  her 
to  him  closely,  and  his  face  was  illuminated  as  he  murmured 
in  his  heart : 

"Art  thou  content,  Saint  Esda?" 

Rene'  stayed  with  his  wife  for  six  weeks.  They  drew 
closer  together  than  they  had  ever  done  through  the  communion 
of  a  sorrow  shared,  a  double  forgiveness,  and  an  awakening  of 
new  life  in  the  feelings  of  Louise  towards  her  husband.  She 
was  quite  ill  for  a  time ;  now  burning  with  fever,  and  again 
exhausted  by  its  reaction.  He  tended  her  with  the  closest 
care,  and  an  almost  feminine  delicacy ;  but  there  was  a  distance 
between  them  she  could  never  cross.  Sometimes  she  would 
waken  to  find  him  staring  at  the  floor  with  an  expression  of 
such  pain  that  it  tore  her  heart.  Yet  she  could  not  appear 
to  be  awake  or  his  face  would  change  instantly  to  a  look  of 
cheerful  service,  and  the  mask  he  kept  for  her,  she  told  herself 
bitterly,  would  again  cover  his  face. 

Remorse  and  retribution  were  mingled  in  those  days  for  her. 
She  was  beginning  to  realise  what  she  had  thrown  away,  and 
with  her  lover's  ultimate  departure,  which  had  occurred  the  day 
before  Rene's  arrival,  the  stronghold  of  selfishness  and  mistaken 
devotion  was  thrown  down,  and  nothing  was  left  to  interfere 
with  the  invading  army  of  feelings,  hopes,  and  fears,  complex 
and  mystifying  even  to  herself,  which  had  possessed  her  since 
she  had  seen  her  husband  in  his  new  aspect,  and  had  known 
the  strong  forces  at  work  in  his  life. 

She  felt  an  insuperable  jealousy  for  Be'thesda,  and  yet  an  awe, 
as  of  something  uncomprehended  and  powerful,  in  view  of  the  su- 
preme renunciation  which  that  distant  woman  had  made  in  her 
behalf.  She  began  to  ask  herself  unwilling  questions  :  Would 
she  have  done  such  a  thing  for  the  wife  of  Alphonse?  No  !  was 
the  instant  defiant  answer. — But  then,  that  was  not  the  same ; 
it  could  not  be  the  same  ;  and  yet,  she  was  forced  to  ask  :  Why 
not  *?  Surely  Rene',  her  husband  (again  defiantly),  was  worthy 
of  a  woman's  love,  more  so,  indeed,  than  most  men.  This 
Be'thesda  was  not  the  first  one  who  had  found  him  noble  in 
character  and  fine  in  intellect.  And  then  she  turned  to  study 
him,  and  to  see  in  him  the  many  traits  which  a  woman,  "  if 
she  were  so  inclined,"  would  love.  Gradually  she  found  herself 
becoming  detached  from  the  past  which  was  perforce  gone  from 


258  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

her,  and  working  in  the  present ;  half  unconsciously  it  is  true, 
but  perhaps  none  the  less  earnestly ;  while  towards  the  future 
she  looked  with  a  wholly  unknown  zest, — something  more  than 
zest — a  desire,  a  longing  to  make  the  future  different  and 
better,  and  to  do  somewhat  for  Rend  as  he  had  been  so  long, 
she  now  saw  doing  for  her. 

From  this  point  she  grew  better,  and  many  were  the  long 
and  quiet  talks  she  and  Rend  had  during  the  weeks  which 
followed  all  too  swiftly.  There  was  a  calmness,  a  recueillement 
about  him  at  times,  however,  which  drove  her  to  solitary  des- 
pair. She  was  put  and  kept  so  far  away  !  She  had  put  her- 
self there,  true ;  it  had  used  to  be  her  pleasure,  but  now,  in 
spite  of  her  endeavours,  still  paroxysmal,  and  egotistic,  some- 
thing ever  came  between  them ;  a  distance,  a  transparent  wall 
of  feeling,  which  separated  them  relentlessly. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  to  the  mirror,  after  a  recognition 
of  this  blank  fatality,  and  would  push  back  her  hair,  and  gaze 
at  the  handsome  face  pitifully  enough. 

"  Of  course  you  are  not  comparable  to  that  blonde  Bdthesda ! " 
she  caught  herself  saying  one  day.  "She  is  beautiful,  and 
young,  and  fresh, — and  you1?  You  have  cried  away  your 
beauty,  and  your  youth,  and  your  freshness ;  he  cannot  care 
for  you!" 

She  threw  a  veil  over  the  mirror,  and  went  away  sullenly. 
It  was  no  use  trying.  Alphonse  might  forgive  her  for  the 
beauty  which  had  been  lost  through  grief  for  him,  but  this 
would  hardly  be  a  passport  to  Renews  favour.  That  fair 
Be'thesda,  with  her  earnest  devotion  and  incomprehensible  self- 
sacrifice,  kept  constantly  coming  between  her  and  her  husband. 
Ah,  she  knew  what  it  was  !  Had  not  Alphonse's  face  haunted 
her  most  when  her  husband  was  present  ?  And — and  now, — 
she  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it;  it  required  an  effort 
for  her  to  be  able  to  recall  his  features.  But  Rend  had  no 
effort  to  make  to  see  this  Americaine's.  No,  not  he !  There 
he  was  now  writing,  and  if  not  to  her,  he  was  thinking  of 
her.  "  I  might  as  well  be  dead,  and  out  of  the  way  at  once," 
she  murmured  between  half-suppressed  sobs. 

And  then  Rend  would  close  the  desk  softly,  and  would  join 
her,  and  draw  her  to  him — "  As  if  I  were  his  sister  !"  she  would 
think  indignantly.  But  she  would  not  move  away,  and  soon 
either  the  tones  of  his  voice,  or  the  sight  of  his  self-contained 


CHAP,  viii.]  A  NEW  DESIEE.  259 

face,  would  hush  her  complainings,  and  once  more  good  spirits 
would  reign. 

The  mother-in-law  knew  nothing  of  the  explanation  which 
had  brought  Louise  and  her  husband  closer  together  than  ever 
since  their  marriage.  It  was  not  a  request  of  Rent's,  but  an 
instinct  in  the  heart  of  Louise,  that  kept  Be'thesda  and  all  per- 
taining to  her  a  conjugal  secret.  At  least  in  this  she  was 
nearer  her  husband  than  any  one  else ;  and  meantime  he  spoke 
to  his  wife  quite  freely,  if  with  tact,  of  Be'thesda.  He  wished 
to  keep  the  fact  of  her  bringing  them  together  continually 
before  the  mind  of  Louise,  and  indeed  of  his  own.  He  was 
growing  to  feel  a  certain  sense  of  her  being  out  of  his  reach, 
beyond  him,  which  the  entire  silence  falling  after  her  last 
noble  words  naturally  increased.  To  dispel  this  he  would 
talk  to  Louise  of  Be'thesda's  character,  and  aims,  and  history. 
He  told  her  of  the  family  conditions  surrounding  Be'thesda ; 
of  her  position  and  wealth ;  but  his  manner  was  always  as  if  he 
were  mentioning  one  very  dear  to  him,  now  dead.  Occasion- 
ally a  perception  of  this  would  come  over  him  with  a  shudder. 
It  might  be  a  presentiment. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  these  conversations  that  Madame 
d'Isten  finally  resolved  to  write  to  Miss  Hamilton.  She  did 
not  know  what  she  should  say,  but  she  believed  the  act  would 
please  her  husband,  and  it  was  only  polite  to  acknowledge  the 
receipt  of  her  letter,  and  to  tell  her  that  she  was  not  offended. 
For  it  had  really  come  to  this.  She  was  no  longer  offended 
with  Be'thesda ;  she  felt  the  good  this  catastrophe  had  brought 
her,  and  fore-felt  the  developments  which  in  the  future  might 
spring  from  it.  Not  that  she  was  conscious  of  any  of  this,  but 
the  possibilities  hovered  about  her  like  protecting  angels,  and 
seemed  to  enshrine  the  thought  of  the  far-away  woman  in  an 
atmosphere  of  benignity,  and,  yes,  of  gratitude. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  express  this,  but 
when  one  day  she  came  to  Rend,  and  said  timidly : 

"  Would  you  like  me  to — to  write  to ' 

"  Be'thesda  ?"  he  exclaimed,  springing  up,  and  catching  her 
hands  in  glad  approval. 

Almost  as  quickly  did  he  realise  what  was  in  her  mind,  and 
the  manner  in  which  she  regarded  his  saint.  So,  his  fairest 
dreams  were  perhaps  to  be  accomplished  !  Be'thesda  and  Louise 
would  be  personal  friends  !  It  was  almost  too  good  to  be  true. 


260  BETHESDA.  [I-AUT  n. 

He  drew  Louise  towards  the  desk  to  secure  the  good  deed 
while  she  was  still  in  the  mood  ;  and  she  seated  herself,  trem- 
bling a  little,  not  alone  with  fear,  but  with  the  stabbing  pain  of 
jealousy  that  came  and  went  in  her  heart.  He  liked  her  so 
much  better  now  that  she  was  going  to  do  something  for  this 
«  B&hesda !" 

He  spread  paper  and  ink  and  pen  before  her,  and  then  moved 
away,  not  to  disturb  her,  and  to  indulge  in  the  visions  this  act 
of  hers  created.  But  it  was  not  at  all  her  purpose  to  let  it 
separate  them ;  what  she  wished  was  to  be  near  him,  to  have 
him  take  an  active  interest  in  her, — he  might  at  least  while 
she  was  writing  this  letter  !  So  she  called  him  back  to  tell  her 
how  to  commence  it,  and  then,  what  should  she  say  ? — Didn't 
she  know  1 — Of  course  she  didn't !  This  woman  was  a  writer, 
and  he  must  express  it  all  for  her,  dictate  it  to  her,  in  fact. 
He  was  too  wise  for  this,  however,  and  only  asked  her,  what 
did  she  wish  to  express  ?  That  was  precisely  the  point,  she 
replied ;  what  did  she  ? 

Then  there  came  a  quick  perception  to  him  of  the  lack  of 
earnestness  in  her,  and  a  sight  of  the  grieved  face  of  Be'thesda 
had  she  seen  the  light  spirit  in  which  her  poignant  utterances 
were  to  be  answered.  His  manner  grew  very  grave,  and  he 
spoke  to  Louise  with  the  greatest  seriousness,  taking  out 
Be"thesda's  letter,  and  re-reading  her  parts  of  it,  which  did  not 
lose  any  of  their  pathos  in  his  rendering. 

Soon  Louise  was  weeping  on  his  shoulder,  crying  out  that 
she  was  not  worthy  to  be  his  wife,  and  that  she  wished  she 
could  be  dead,  or  better. 

"  That  last  is  right,"  said  he,  encouragingly.  "  We  must 
both  wish  to  be  better.  My  wife  has  no  need  to  wish  death  ; 
neither  ought  she.  Our  life  is  given  us  to  live,  and  to  live  as 
nobly  as  we  can,  not  to  throw  away.  Look  up,  my  Louise. 
Be  strong.  Take  thy  pen  and  write.  Answer  this  letter  as  it 
is  written.  Tell  her  frankly  what  you  feel.  It  will  be  received 
with  more  tender  comprehension  than  any  one,  except  God, 
could  receive  it." 

Thus  exhorted,  Louise  wiped  her  eyes,  and  commenced  the 
letter.  Her  husband  sat  close  beside  her,  his  hands  folded, 
and  his  eyes  bent  on  the  floor.  She  looked  at  him  many  times 
during  the  first  few  sentences,  which  were  embarrassed  and  con- 
fused ;  but  he  did  not  glance  at  her,  and  she  felt  the  spell  of 


CHAP.  VIII.]  BUDS.  261 

his  will  to  continue.  Presently  the  volubility  of  her  own 
emotions  overcame  her ;  her  timidity  was  swept  away  in  the 
stream  of  expression  which  seemed  to  gush  from  her  very  heart. 
She  almost  forgot  to  whom  she  was  writing,  and  felt  more  as 
if  this  were  a  sacred  confession,  than  a  letter  to  any  one. 

Soon  Rene'  found  that  he  could  look  at  her  unnoticed, 
and  he  was  surprised  to  find  the  vivid  interest  he  took  in  watch- 
ing the  turbulent  expressions  which  chased  one  another  across 
her  face,  as  her  hand  swept  over  page  after  page.  Tears  and 
fire  alternately  extinguished  one  another  in  her  eyes ;  her  mouth 
now  moved  with  a  passionate  exclamation,  and  again  grew 
piteous  with  a  sense  of  her  sorrows.  And  at  last,  when  she 
signed  her  name  and  threw  down  her  pen,  holding  the  still  wet 
sheets  out  to  her  husband,  she  had  never  appealed  to  him  more. 

He  took  the  pages  from  her,  and  pressed  a  warm  kiss  on  her 
hand ;  a  caress  which  made  her  rise  abruptly  and  leave  him. 
She  stood  in  the  embrasured  window  looking  out  on  the  busy 
street  regardless  of  everything.  "  What  will  he  think?"  she 
was  saying  to  herself,  and  wishing — almost  wishing — she  had 
not  given  it  to  him. 

When  he  had  not  half  finished  he  came  up  behind  her,  and 
drawing  her  arm  through  his  led  her  to  a  seat. 

"  My  wife,"  he  said  in  a  tone  penetrated  with  tender  com- 
prehension, "  there  is  much  left  to  us  yet." 

Then  he  sat  beside  her  holding  her  hand  while  he  com- 
pleted the  epistle.  The  letter  had  done  service  already,  whether 
it  ever  reached  its  destination  or  not.  It  had  cleared  away 
much  of  the  debris  of  the  shattered  past,  and  shown  Rene'  the 
love  which  was  sprouting,  all  unconsciously  to  Louise,  amid  the 
fragments  and  the  dust  now  watered  by  tears  of  repentance. 
Was  it  too  late  ? 

At  the  same  time  that  he  had  this  letter  registered  he  took 
from  the  mail  a  note  forwarded  from  Paris.  It  was  from  Miss 
Conover,  saying  she  was  in  the  city,  and  would  be  pleased  to 
see  him.  Just  at  the  end  there  was  a  perturbing  question  : 
"  Have  you  heard  whether  Miss  Hamilton  is  better  ?  Her 
severe  illness  since  New  Year's  Day  alarms  me.  I  am  hoping 
daily  for  a  letter  from  at  least  Mrs.  Trescott." 

Bethesda  severely  ill,  and  all  comrmmication  broken ! 
Suffering  for  him  too !  The  whole  fierce  tide  of  his  longing  set 
suddenly  towards  her  again.  It  was  too  much  to  be  borne  in 


262  BETHESDA.  [PAET  n. 

inaction.  He  must  hasten  to  Paris,  where,  through  Miss 
•Conover,  he  might  occasionally  hear  of  his  beloved,  his  angel, 
his  saint — perhaps  already  his  saint  in  heaven  ! 

Louise  was  now  quite  recovered,  and  able  to  journey  to 
Paris  if  she  liked,  and  his  leave  of  absence  had  been  unduly 
prolonged.  He  asked  her  the  same  evening  if  she  would  return 
with  him.  It  was  necessary  he  should  go  at  once. 

Louise  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  and  urged  him  to  stay 
with  her  old  imperiousness,  which  he  had  generally  obeyed. 
But  now  he  was  inflexible.  Indeed  his  anxiety  made  him  pre- 
occupied and  stern,  an  effect  which  Louise  was  not  long  in 
perceiving.  She  waited  and  watched ;  asked  until  the  morning 
before  she  should  decide ;  went  and  consulted  her  mother,  who 
did  not  aid  her  even  by  contradiction,  showing  an  entire  in- 
difference. Finally  Louise  took  her  courage  in  both  hands, 
and  asked  Ren£  somewhat  abruptly : 

"  Have  you  news  of  Be'thesda  ?" 

His  mind  was  so  full  of  the  thought  that  he  was  not  sur- 
prised. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  such  tense  self-control  that 
it  was  almost  harsh;  "a  friend  in  Paris  writes  me  she  is 
severely  ill.  She  may  now  even No,  she  cannot  be " 

He  broke  off  short,  and  walked  with  long  strides  to  the 
window.  He  stood  there  a  long  time  quite  motionless,  and 
the  twilight  deepened  unbroken  and  chill  around  them.  When 
he  turned  at  last  Louise  spoke  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  I  think  I  will  not  go  to  Paris  with  you." 

"  Always  do  as  you  like,"  he  answered,  a  weary  indifference 
piercing  through  the  courtesy  of  his  tone. 

She  rose  and  came  to  stand  beside  him,  where  he  had  fallen 
into  a  chair. 

"  No,  my  Rene","  she  said,  with  a  gentleness  that  roused 
him.  "  It  has  been,  as  you  say,  always  as  I  liked ;  now  I 
hope  it  will  be  something  better.  It  is  for  your  sake,  dear 
Rend,"  she  said,  suddenly  dropping  to  her  knees  beside  him ;  "it 
is  for  your  sake  I  say  I  will  not  go  to  Paris.  If — if  you  are 
anxious,  you  will  not  want  me,  and — and 

"  Come,"  he  said  simply,  putting  one  arm  around  her  as 
she  knelt  there.  "  Come  with  me." 

" No,  no ;  not  now,"  she  answered,  rising.  "It  is  too 
soon  ;  I  could  not  get  ready.  My  maid  will  not  go — I " 


CHAP,  ix.]     .  KETUEN  TO  PAKIS.  263 

"  Put  these  things  aside,  Louise,"  said  her  husband  earnestly. 
He  had  risen  also,  and  was  standing  facing  her.  It  would  be 
hard  for  him  to  have  her  there ;  he  knew  that ;  but  he  knew 
also  it  was  what  Be'thesda  would  have  wished.  "Don't  let 
little  things  stand  in  the  way,  for  it  is  right  we  should  be 
together.  Come." 

But  her  devotion,  such  as  it  was,  was  entirely  personal. 
"  Eight "  was  a  chilly  word  ;  he  should  go  alone. 

Perhaps  pique  strengthened  this  feeling,  and  innate  obstinacy 
fixed  it.  In  any  case,  she  would  not  go  with  him ;  their  good 
understanding  was  broken ;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  him  when 
in  the  next  mail  train  he  left  alone  for  bachelor  life,  and  news 
of  Be'thesda  in  Paris. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"  If  to  conquer  love  has  tried, 
To  conquer  grief  tries  more  ...  as  all  things  prove, 
For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. " 

MRS.  BEOWNINO. 

"  She  cried,  '  I  am  the  sister  of  white  Faith 
Who  sits  serenely  in  the  open  heaven, 
To  whom  I  minister ;  thus  ever  driven 
About  the  world,  and  Anguish  named. 

Yet  I 
Too,  am  divine. ' "  W.  C.  ROSCOB. 

ON  arriving  in  the  city  Hens'  went  immediately  to  the  address 
Mademoiselle  Cinoni  had  sent  him.  She  was  receiving  and 
singing  for  a  few  friends.  It  was  a  piece  Ren^  had  last  heard 
when  with  Bethesda  in  London,  and  now,  when  his  anxiety  and 
fears  had  grown  with  every  mile  of  the  long  journey,  these 
familiar  tones  struck  through  him  a  shivering  discord. 

He  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Conover  an  instant,  pencilling  it  on 
the  back  of  his  card.  She  came  out  immediately,  and  urged 
him  to  enter,  but  he  excused  himself  as  not  suitably  attired. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  Miss  Conover  has  heard  from  America 
as  to  the  health  of  Miss  Hamilton  1 "  he  asked,  then,  in  a  well- 
schooled  voice. 

Mrs.  Conover's  face  grew  grave  and  grieved,  as  she  replied : 

"  Yes ;  a  letter  came  from  Mrs.  Trescott  yesterday.     Miss 


264  BETHESDA.  [PART  IT. 

Hamilton  is  hardly  to  be  expected  to  live,  I  fear.  She  was 
such  a  sweet  girl,  too !  Mrs.  Trescott  wrote  hastily,  and  in 
great  distress.  It  will  be  a  terrible  blow  to  her.  If  you  will 
call  to-morrow  Guinevere  will  let  you  read  the  letter,"  she 
added  gently,  somewhat  recognising  in  the  sudden  pallor  and 
gray  lips  of  M.  d'Isten  the  shock  she  had  given. 

" Thank  you,"  he  contrived  to  say.  "At  what  hour  may 
I  hope 1" 

"  At  eleven,  if  you  like." 

He  bowed,  not  daring  to  trust  himself  to  speak  further,  and 
left  the  house.  The  coolness  and  darkness  were  a  temporary 
relief  to  him,  and  he  hurried  away  out  of  the  sound  of  that 
haunting,  horrible  song. 

She  was  a  sweet  girl !  This  putting  it  in  the  past  tense 
was  unendurable.  And  how  could  Bethesda's  friend  sing  when, 
perhaps — it  was  true  1 

He  set  his  teeth  and  walked  on.  The  cabman  followed  him, 
clamouring  for  his  pay.  Ren<5  looked  up  finally,  as  one  might 
at  the  buzz  of  an  insect,  and  then  remembered  that  he  had  left 
his  portmanteau  containing  the  precious  package  of  letters  in 
the  carriage.  He  sprang  in,  seized  the  handles,  and  held  them 
tight  during  the  drive  to  his  hotel.  They  had  been  looking  for 
him,  and  now  the  servants  rushed  out  to  assist  him,  and 
madame,  seeing  his  stern,  tense  face,  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  I  hope,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  that  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse " 

"  She  is  well,"  was  the  short  reply,  and,  waving  away  the 
servants,  he  hastened  upstairs. 

This  house  !  this  room  !  this  furniture  !  The  fire  burning 
as  if  she  had  been  there  to  welcome  him  ! 

For  a  moment  a  whirling  sensation  came  in  his  brain,  and 
the  past  returned  so  vividly  that  the  present  was  blotted  out, 
and  he  conceived  himself  as  just  waiting  for  Be'thesda  to  enter. 
A  fitful  smile  played  around  his  lips  as  he  turned  towards  the 
door,  and  a  vague,  pleased  look  came  in  his  eyes.  At  that 
moment  he  was  close  upon  the  borders  of  insanity. 

Then  the  whirl  came  again,  and  when  it  left  him  he  was 
returned  to  the  bitter,  despairing  present.  With  a  groan  he 
flung  his  arm  over  the  table,  and  his  head  fell  upon  it,  the 
spring  of  life  apparently  broken. 

Presently,  however,  he  sprang  up.      She  was  alive;   she 


niAi>.  ix.]  AFLAME.  265 

could  not  be  dead ;  and  why  was  she  so  ill  ?  For  love  of  him  ! 
She  might  be  dying,  because  to  give  him  up  was  synonymous 
with  giving  up  life.  She  had  rated  her  strength  too  high. 
That  fragile  form  could  not  bear  the  stress  of  such  emotions,  and 
such  a  sacrifice.  It  was  too  much  to  ask  of  a  human  being.  It 
was  wrong !  it  was  wicked  !  (He  was  pacing  the  floor  now.) 
Perhaps  she  had  never  received  his  letter ;  probably  not.  She 
had  been  prostrated  before  it  could  reach  her,  and  Mabel  had  in 
all  likelihood  destroyed  it.  His  beloved  would  not  know  that 
he  was  endlessly  devoted  to  her ;  that  nothing  either  in  heaven 
or  hell  could  detach  him  from  her !  And  she  was  dying  for 
want  of  this  knowledge.  Mabel  had  done  it ;  Mabel  had  held 
the  knife,  and  cut  the  throat  of  this  willing  victim.  "  Mabel," 
he  said,  slowly  and  aloud,  "Mabel  shall  have  her  reward." 
She  had  promised  to  send  him  word,  to  telegraph  him,  if 
Bdthesda  were  ever  ill  unto  death,  and  had  she  kept  her  pro- 
mise 1  Of  course  not !  Who  could  expect  her  to  keep  a 
promise  ?  he  laughed  bitterly,  although  she  considered  the  pro- 
mises made  to  her  binding  in  life  and  in  death.  There  was  no 
sort  of  justice  in  it.  There  was  no  justice  in  the  world  !  else 
why  should  his  heart's  whole  treasure  lie  dying  there,  and  he 
stand  impotent,  delirious,  here  1 

Something  mmt  be  done. 

He  thought  no  farther  then,  but  bathed  his  head,  threw 
open  a  window,  and,  seeing  his  dense  pallor  in  a  mirror  he 
passed,  bethought  him  of  a  glass  of  wine. 

He  seated  himself  then,  outwardly  composed,  but  his  whole 
inner  being  was  a  raging  fire.  He  struggled  to  keep  it  under, 
as  one  would  the  flames  that  threatened  those  one  was  trying  to 
rescue.  He  bent  the  whole  force  of  his  intellect  and  energy  of 
his  nature  to  the  aim  of  finding  some  means  of  aiding  his  dying 
one,  so  many  miles  away. 

Should  he  go  to  her  1 

He  feared  it  would  be  useless.  Were  she  still  alive  when 
the  interminable  journey  was  over  he  would  not  be  admitted  to 
her  side.  Even  through  Marcot  he  could  not  reach  her.  Her 
sister  or  her  aunts  would  be  watching  with  her  day  and  night, 
and  Mrs.  Trescott  had  prejudiced  every  one  against  him ;  she 
had  said  as  much  in  her  letters.  Perhaps,  too,  Be'thesda  could 
not  endure  the  sudden  revulsion  of  seeing  him,  and  what  could 
he  say  ?  Only  that  he  was  hers  for  life  and  death,  to  dispose 


266  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

of  as  she  chose,  and  she  had  settled  that  question  already.  She 
knew,  without  his  assurance,  that  her  wishes  would  be  obeyed. 

If  he  could  not  go  to  her,  what  then  ? 

Telegraph?  Write?  Through  Marcot  a  word  from  him 
might  reach  her.  What  should  that  word  be  ?  What  could  it 
be,  except  a  repetition  of  what  she  already  knew,  unless  his 
conditions  should  change?  Well,  were  they  inflexible?  A 
divorce  was  impossible;  the  church  had  taken  care  of  that. 
Besides,  he  shrank  from  such  a  thing  with  an  unconquerable 
repugnance.  So,  he  knew,  would  Be'thesda.  Then,  there  was 
nothing  he  could  do  ? 

A  thought,  a  wild,  romantic  thought !  To  go  to  America, 
to  take  Marcot's  place  !  To  see  her,  to  wait  upon  her;  some- 
time, perhaps,  to  slip  a  little  word  into  her  ear  of  encouraging 
devotion ! 

The  possibility  glittered  before  him  like  an  enchantment. 
Who  could  tell  what  his  mere  presence  might  do  for  her  ?  He 
would  take  such  exquisite  care  of  her,  and  he  could  act  his  part 
so  well!  He  pored  over  this  suggestion,  amplified  it  into  the 
minutest  details,  imagined  his  actions,  his  self-control,  his  foiling 
discovery,  until  he  was  almost  resolved  upon  immediately  under- 
taking it.  Then  suddenly  came  the  question  :  "  Would  she  like 
it  ? "  and  his  fairy  structure  fell  into  abject  demolition. 

For  she  would  not.  As  soon  as  the  first  surprise  and  joy 
were  past,  her  conscience,  of  whose  strength  he  had  some  know- 
ledge now,  would  disapprove,  and  he  would  be  adding  to  her 
trials  instead  of  decreasing  them.  She  would  send  him  away, 
whatever  it  cost  her,  and  tell  him  to  return  to  Louise. 

Louise — he  had  not  thought  of  her.  But  she  was  to  be  con- 
sidered ;  yes,  decidedly  to  be  considered.  They  had  commenced 
a  new  life ;  the  future,  with  patience,  promised  more  than  the 
past  had  ever  done,  and  this  was  through  his  saint's  ministra- 
tions. Louise  must  not  be  disregarded,  nor  Be'thesda's  com- 
mands to  actively  help  her. 

As  he  reached  this  conclusion,  which  surrendered  him  to  a 
sense  of  his  incapacity  and  weariness,  a  servant  knocked,  and 
said  a  gentleman  waited  below  who  had  already  called  twice, 
while  monsieur  the  count  was  absent. 

"  His  name  ? " 

The  gentleman  declined  to  give  a  name,  but  begged  to  assure 
monsieur  the  count  that  it  was  most  important  they  should 


CHAP,  ix.]  A  STKANGE  MEETING.  267 

meet.     Rend  was  about  to  dismiss  the  man  impatiently,  when 
the  thought  suggested  itself :  If  he  should  come  from  Be'thesda? 

"  Tell  him  he  may  enter,"  were  his  immediate  words. 

He  went  into  the  next  room  and  removed  the  traces  of  his 
journey  hastily.  When  he  returned  to  the  salon,  there,  bending 
over  a  book,  was  a  man  he  had  good  cause  to  know.  A  mes- 
senger from  Be'thesda  indeed  !  It  was  the  lover  of  Louise. 

His  guest  turned  and  saw  him  as  the  scorn  of  this  thought 
flashed  across  his  features. 

"  Monsieur  ! "  exclaimed  the  young  officer  hastily,  while  his 
face  suffused  with  a  most  unmilitary  blush,  "  believe  you  see  in 
me  only  one  who  desires  to  render  you  a  service  in  token  of  his 
gratitude." 

"  You  owe  me  nothing,"  said  M.  d'Isten  coldly. 

"  Pardon ;  I  owe  you  what  a  soldier  values  more  than  his 
life — his  reputation." 

A  fine  smile  just  touched  M.  d'Isten's  lip,  but — 

"  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  this  visit,  sir  ? "  was  all  he 
said. 

"To  an  earnest  desire  to  serve  you,"  replied  the  soldier 
eagerly.  "  I  have  a  piece  of  information  which  I  am  convinced 
you  will  value.  It  should  be  for  you  alone."  He  glanced  as 
he  spoke  at  the  open  door  through  which  M.  d'Isten  had 
entered. 

"  We  are  alone.  I  cannot  imagine  what  you  would  say,  but 
be  seated,"  said  Rene',  with  careless  politeness.  "  I  have  an 
engagement  shortly ;  until  then  I  listen." 

The  young  officer  bit  his  lip.     This  was  haughty  treatment ; 
presently  he  should  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it  change. 
•     "  If  your  time  is  brief,  monsieur,  pray  allow  me  to  put  aside 
ceremony."     M.  d'Isten  bowed.     "You  were  married  in  the 
chapel  of  the  Chateau  d'Espine'res." 

"  I  believe  you  were  a  witness,"  returned  M.  d'Isten,  with  a 
touch  of  ironical  disdain.  It  caused  a  hot  flush  to  sting  his 
companion's  face,  under  the  impulse  of  which  he  exclaimed 
abruptly : 

"  I  witnessed,  perhaps,  a  ceremony,  but  no  marriage." 

Rend  looked  up  and  down  the  stalwart  form  before  him. 
Was  the  man  mad  ?  Or — could  it  be  that  a  private  marriage 
had  taken  place  between  Louise  and  this  man  before  the  "  cere- 
mony," as  he  called  it  ?  Impossible.  Louise  would  long  since 


268  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

have  flown  to  her  lover  had  this  been  true.  And  yet — her 
words,  that  she  could  free  herself  and  him. 

He  looked  up  sharply. 

"  Explain  yourself,"  he  said. 

"  It  has  been  a  strange  thing  to  me,  monsieur,"  began  the 
officer,  now  more  at  ease,  "  that  during  these  many  years  of 
what  you  thought  marriage,  you  have  never  discovered  that  the 
ceremony  was  illegal,  and  that  you  are  not  the  husband  of 
Louise  Mande'ras." 

"  Be  careful,  sir  !  Remember  that  the  honour  of  the  lady 
you  mention  has  been  long  in  my  keeping,  and  I  may  add — to 
you — that  I  have  kept  it  well  What  proofs  can  you  bring  of 
this  curious  assertion  ?  How  have  you  convinced  yourself  that 
my  marriage  was  illegal  1 " 

"  By  acquaintance  with  the  simple  facts  that  the  father  of 
your  supposed  bride  was  a  Spaniard,  which  made  his  daughter 
a  Spaniard,  and  that  you  are  a  Frenchman.  Facts  equally  well 
known  to  you,  undoubtedly,  but  what  has  strangely  escaped  you 
is  that  for  a  Frenchman  to  marry  a  foreigner,  on  foreign  soil,  is 
illegal,  and  the  union  is  void  according  to  law." 

A  pause.  What  a  revelation  for  Rene' !  What  a  possibility  ! 
It  staggered  him  for  a  moment,  then  : 

"  These  are  assertions  only,  sir  ;  what  are  your  proofs  ? " 

The  officer  rose  and  took  from  the  table  a  bulky  volume  he 
had  brought.  It  was  marked  at  a  certain  page,  and  he  handed 
it  to  M.  d'Isten  in  silence. 

Rend  read.  It  was  true.  This  was  a  volume  of  the  Code, 
and  here  it  was  in  formal  language — the  incantation  which 
broke  his  fetters  to  Louise  and  left  him  free. 

The  shock  stunned  him.  The  miraculous  overthrow  of 
accustomed  conditions,  the  possibilities  flashing  like  lightning 
about  him,  the  incredulity  of  surprise  confounded  by  proof,  all 
combined  to  blur  his  mind.  He  could  not  tell  if  it  were  pain 
or  pleasure  he  felt ;  he  was  sure  it  was  confusion. 

He  had  enough  presence  of  mind  to  keep  his  face  under 
control,  so  that  even  the  curious  eyes  before  him  could  read 
little  of  what  passed  within ;  but  now  he  rose  and  walked  to 
the  window,  and  stood  there  a  few  moments. 

Louise  not  his  wife  1  What  was  she,  then  ?  What  was 
he  ?  Bdthesda's  spirit  asked  ;  he,  who  had  prided  himself  on  his 
untarnished  life.  They  could  both  be  retrieved  by  an  instant 


CHAP,  ix.]  KECIPROC1TY.  269 

marriage  now ;  but — to  marry  her  whom  he  had  so  long  felt  a 
burden,  from  whom,  hardly  an  hour  ago,  he  was  longing  to  be 
free  that  he  might  give  himself  wholly  to  Be'thesda,  and  now 
to  make  use  of  his  new  conditions  only  to  put  himself  back  into 
those  old  ones,  and,  in  so  doing,  to  deny  Be'thesda,  perhaps  to 
kill  her? 

But  this  was  no  time  for  such  questions.  What  was  he 
going  to  say  to  that  young  man  there  1  Hum  ;  he  would  test 
him. 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  table.  The  officer 
was  watching  him  with  an  assumption  of  deference,  under  which 
some  triumph  lurked.  Rend  d'Isten  met  his  eyes  with  the  most 
probing  of  glances. 

"  Since  when  have  you  known  this,  monsieur  1 " 

"  Not  long,  Monsieur  le  Comte ;  only  since  you  brought 
Mademoiselle  Mande'ras 

"  Call  her  by  the  name  she  has  so  long  worn,  if  you  please," 
interrupted  Rend  haughtily. 

"Since  you  and  your  wife,  then,  monsieur,  came  to  Paris. 
If  I  had  known  before  that,  I  fear  I  should  have  given  you 
trouble."  He  smiled  in  a  manner  Rene'  at  once  pronounced 
odious. 

"  What  was  your  object  in  telling  me  this  ?"  he  asked  sternly. 

"  As  I  have  had  the  honour  to  inform  you  I  wished  to  pay 
off  somewhat  of  the  debt  of  obligation  you  have  laid  upon  me. 
It  is  a  debt  of  honour,  sir." 

"And  you  thought  you  would  be  doing  me  &  favour"  a 
fine  scorn  in  the  word,  "  to  tell  me  that  what  I  have  regarded 
as  a  sacred  obligation  for  years  is  not  of  a  feather's  value  ? " 

"  I  had  reason  to  believe,  monsieur,  that  the  knowledge  of 
your  freedom  would  not  be  unwelcome  to  you." 

"  You  dared  to  think— 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  interrupted  the  officer  hardily ;  "  your 
ceaseless  watching  of  me  has  not  been  entirely  unreciprocated. 
I  knew  you  had  met  a  lady  whom " 

"  Beware  of  touching  such  a  subject  even  in  your  thoughts  !  " 
interrupted  M.  d'Isten  sternly.  "  This  matter  is  a  most  distaste- 
ful one ;  let  us  finish  it.  Be  so  kind  as  to  answer  me  a 
question.  Are  you  aware  if  my — if  Louise  knows  this  law  ? " 

"  She  has  never  known  of  it  from  me,  monsieur,  nor  has  she 
given  me  any  occasion  to  suspect  that  she  knew  it." 


270  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

"Thanks.  We  need  not  deny  that  we  are  both  familiar 
with  the  fact  that  you  loved  her,  and  that,  had  you  been  able, 
you  would  have  snatched  her  away  at  any  time " 

"  Before  last  March ;  not  since,"  interposed  his  companion, 
with  a  bow.  "  I  was  too  deeply  in  your  debt." 

"  Very  well,"  with  an  impatient  gesture ;  "  before  last 
March,  then.  Now  I  ask  you,  as  man  to  man,  did  you,  know- 
ing she  was  free,  seek  her  honourably  ?  Would  you,  if  you  had 
the  opportunity,  marry  her  to-morrow  1 " 

He  turned  his  penetrating  glance  full  upon  his  interlocutor, 
and  under  its  blaze  the  man's  bold  eyes  fell.  He  could  not, 
without  a  sense  of  shame,  speak  here  what  had  seemed  to  him 
a  matter  of  course  elsewhere.  But  the  remembrance  of  this 
reassured  him.  He  recovered  himself,  and  gave  a  short  laugh, 
which  caused  his  answer  to  be  almost  unneeded. 

"  Eeally,  monsieur,  your  offer  sounds  magnanimous,  but  I 
am  hardly  prepared  to  sacrifice  my  honour  to  marry  an  unwedded 
wife." 

Then  Rend  d'Isten  drew  himself  up,  and  looked  every  inch 
the  aristocrat. 

"  I  understand.  You  would  woo  her  to  dishonour,  dis- 
honouring yourself  no  less ;  you  were  ardent  in  that,  because 
the  world  would  not  point  its  finger  at  you,  and  cry  :  Shame  ! 
But  now — let  me  finish,  if  you  please,  sir — now,  when  the 
opportunity  is  offered  you  to  say  if  you  would  shelter  under 
your  name  the  woman  you  pretend  to  love,  you  become  finical 
and  dainty.  I  am  glad  to  know  what  your  love  is  worth ;  I 
have  wasted  much  good  sympathy  upon  you.  But  I  should  not 
have  looked  for  anything  different.  It  is  like  you,  brave  soldier 
that  you  are  !  " 

"  Monsieur ! " 

"Your  precious  'honour'  I  saved  once,  because  my  wife 
desired  it.  It  was  not  worth  it.  Allow  me  to  bid  you  good- 
evening." 

"  I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  then,  at  last,  of  sending  you  my 
second.  I  brook  no  insults,  sir." 

"  Spare  yourself  the  trouble.  I  shall  receive  no  second.  I 
do  not  fight — certainly  not  with  one  who  has  proved  himself 
base.  Adieu." 

The  officer  strode  up  close  to  the  haughty  count,  and 
looked  in  his  face  insolently.  In  one  hand  was  his  glove.  He 


CHAP,  x.]  DESPAIK.  271 

was  about  to  raise  it,  when  a  better  thought  struck  him,  a  finer 
insult. 

"  Which  shall  you  marry  ? "  he  sneered,  and  with  a  coarse 
laugh  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Break,  0  break  this  bitter  silence  !  speak  unto  me  once  again  ! 
Tell  me,  shall  I  ere  behold  thee  ?  tell  me,  do  I  wait  in  vain  ? 
It  is  well  for  us  to  suffer,  it  is  well  for  us  to  wait, 
Well  to  swing,  like  little  children,  all  our  life  on  death's  loose  gate. " 

J.  MILLER  HAGEMAN. 

EXACTLY  at  eleven  the  next  morning  M.  d'Isten  presented  him- 
self at  Miss  Conover's  door.  She  had  been  prepared  by  her 
mother  to  find  him  much  changed,  but  his  appearance  shocked 
her.  She  wondered  why  he  should  look  so  ill.  She  held  a 
letter  in  her  hand,  and  after  the  first  grave  courtesies  were 
exchanged,  she  gave  it  to  him,  turning  away  while  he  read  it, 
with  an  instinctive  consideration. 

He  went  over  it  again  and  again,  until  he  knew  it  by  heart ; 
not  for  that  end,  but  because  it  was  so  hopeless.  Bethesda  was 
day  and  night  either  insensible  or  in  excruciating  pain,  wrote 
Mrs.  Trescott.  His  Esda !  his  fragile  love  !  Did  he  go  to  her 
now  it  would  only  be  to  find  her  beyond  the  reach  of  sorrow 
or  consolation. 

At  last  Miss  Conover,  vaguely  alarmed,  went  forward  and 
spoke  his  name.  He  turned,  and  she  put  out  her  hand  impuls- 
ively : 

"  Ah,  it  is  a  sorrow  to  you  also,  monsieur." 

He  could  not  reply,  but  bent  over  her  hand  in  silence. 
Presently,  however,  the  sympathy  of  a  common  grief  somewhat 
loosened  the  tense  cords  around  his  heart,  and  she  could  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  reverential  tenderness  with  which  he  regarded 
Be'thesda,  and  which,  for  the  time  being,  caused  him  to  forget 
all  else. 

Evra  did  not  think  to  be  indignant.  The  perception  of  the 
agony  it  must  be  to  this  man  not  to  have  a  shred  of  communi- 
cation at  such  a  time  forced  itself  in  upon  her,  and  she  was 
compassionate  towards  him.  Her  Lily  had  thought  him  worthy 
of  her  friendship,  and  she  would  be  his  friend  now. 


272  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

After  this  M.  d'Isten  visited  Miss  Conover  frequently,  each 
day  looking  more  worn  and  haggard,  for  the  news  from  America 
continued  to  be  of  the  worst, — that  is,  when  there  was  any 
news.  The  long  suspense  between  the  scraps  Mabel  and  Marcot 
wrote  was  the  hardest  of  all  to  bear.  The  two  yearning  friends 
came  even  to  look  upon  the  hour  when  they  should  hear  of 
Bethesda's  death  as  one  of  relief,  for  then  she  would  no  longer 
be  suffering  these  agonies,  too  painful  to  be  imagined,  and  they 
would  be  out  of  the  clutches  of  a  despairing  hope. 

A  gnawing  indecision  also  wore  upon  Rene'.  He  had  been 
to  a  lawyer,  and  convinced  himself  beyond  any  further  doubt 
that  he  was  free.  But  free  to  do  what  ?  He  was  surprised  at 
himself  that  the  matter  was  so  difficult  of  solution.  A  year 
before  he  would  have  thought  this  release  a  God-sent  justice, 
and  accepted  it  as  such.  Now  he  could  not  help  but  think  of 
Louise's  cruel  position,  and  her  claims  paramount  almost  to  his 
own.  Conscience,  once  awakened  by  contact  with  Be'thesda's, 
could  not  again  be  lulled  to  sleep.  He  found  himself  in  the 
terrible  situation  of  divided  forces.  To  which  did  he  owe  him- 
self? To  her  who  held  his  heart,  or  to  her  whom  he  had  called 
wife  ?  Was  body  more  than  soul  1  Did  the  fact  of  his  having 
been  the  husband  of  Louise  condemn  him  to  marry  her  now  ] 
Did  he  not  rather  owe  it  to  Be'thesda  that  his  new-found  freedom 
should  be  laid  at  her  feet  1  But  then  perhaps  already  she  was 
beyond  any  joy  he  could  give  her,  beyond  hope,  beyond — could 
she  be  beyond  love  ? 

Her  illness  served  Bethesda  well  with  Rend,  and  also  with 
Guinevere,  whose  jealous  nature  had  at  times  been  aroused  by 
the  sight  of  anguish  greater  even  than  her  own.  But  she  could 
never  censure  Bethesda.  This  distant  martyr,  who  might  at 
any  instant  become — might  already  have  become — a  soul  in 
heaven,  it  was  impossible  to  associate  with  angry,  or  jealous,  or 
sensuous  thoughts.  This  body  mangled  in  the  conflict,  although 
so  dear  to  each,  was  seen  to  be  as  nothing  to  the  strength  of 
that  ardent  spirit  which  soared  above  it  and  them.  They  heard 
of  her  patience  and  fortitude,  her  unselfishness  and  spirituality, 
and  they  felt  that  she  was  a  being  bound  so  slightly  to  earth 
that  the  touch  of  a  rough  or  unworthy  thought  might  break  the 
chrysalis,  and  leave  her  to  soar  white-winged  to  God. 

They  were  both  Catholics,  and  many  times  they  might  have 
been  seen,  if  not  at  the  same  church,  at  the  same  hour  praying 


CHAP,  x.]  COMMENCEMENT  OF  EETEIEVAL.  273 

for  her  whose  body  might  be  alive  or  dead.  For  Rene*  had 
found  that  there  was  something  more  powerful  to  pray  to  than 
Esda.  His  saint  was  enough  for  him,  but  when  she  needed 
intercession,  whom  was  there  to  go  to  but  God  ? 

And  when  he  left  the  holy  shadow  of  the  church  he  would 
go  home  to  write  to  Louise  kindly,  solicitously  :  showing  an  un- 
usual tenderness  as  of  one  about  to  go  away  for  ever.  He  left 
the  matter  in  God's  hands.  If  his  prayers  were  answered,  and 
Be'thesda  recovered,  he  would  go  to  her  and  leave  Louise. 
Spirit  was  stronger  than  matter,  soul  more  divine  than  body, 
love  the  truest  law.  So,  whatever  it  cost  Louise,  Be'thesda 
should  not  miss  her  rights.  She  had  never  done  anything  to 
cause  her  to  miss  them.  Louise  had ;  and  yet  he  never  felt 
so  forgiving  and  lenient  to  Louise  as  when  he  was  caressing  the 
idea  of  Bdthesda's  recovery. 

What  made  his  thoughts  especially  gentle  with  her  who  had 
been  his  wife  was  the  fact  that,  through  one  whom  he  had  trusted 
for  many  years,  he  learned  that  the  doughty  officer,  who  had  so 
eagerly  sought  to  pay  off  a  "  debt  of  gratitude,"  had  returned  to 

M ,  and  tried  to  meet  Louise  where  he  could  speak  to  her 

alone.  Failing  in  that,  as  Rene'  had  long  since  taken  care  he 
should  fail,  he  sent  her  a  letter  saying  that  a  word  from  him 
could  free  her  from  bonds  she  had  long  endured,  and  that  could 
he  gain  an  interview  with  her  for  only  one  moment,  this  word 
should  be  spoken,  and  her  heart  assured  that  his  devotion  was 
as  unceasing  as  it  had  been  patient. 

Louise  had  received  this  letter  through  some  clever  intrigue 
which  had  prevented  the  trusty  friend  from  securing  it  en  route, 
but  it  had  done  little  harm,  for  it  had  not  been  opened.  It  was 
returned  by  Louise  herself  to  its  writer,  whom  it  was  allowed 
to  reach,  and  who  had  almost  immediately  left  the  place. 

"  My  poor,  dear  Louise  !"  said  Rene'  to  himself,  as  he  folded 
the  letter  containing  this  news.  He  felt  very  tenderly  towards 
her  as  one  does  towards  a  child  who  has  been  naughty  and  un- 
manageable, but  who  is  receiving  hard  punishment.  Poor  child  ! 
it  would  go  hard  with  her.  And  this  fellow  was  a  dastard. 

This  news  only  made  him  more  eager  for  decisive  word  from 
America.  Such  upheaval  and  suspense  were  peculiarly  unen- 
durable to  him.  He  was  unable  to  adjust  himself  to  anything, 
without  the  likelihood  of  being  thrown  off  his  balance  at  the 
next  instant.  He  was  the  plaything  of  fate,  the  buffet  of  chance. 

T 


274  BETHESDA.  [PART  11. 

But  this  fate  and  chance  would  have  a  divine  hand  to  impel  them, 
and  he  would  abide  its  decision.  If  Bdthesda  died,  hope  was 
for  ever  shut  to  him.  He  could  sacrifice  himself  in  a  perpetual 
suttee  and  find  it  sweet,  because  she  would  approve.  Louise 
should  know  what  this  "  word  of  freedom  "  was,  and  choose  him 
or  reject  him  with  open-eyed  knowledge.  But  he  could  do  nothing 
till  he  heard  from  Be'thesda.  His  whole  soul  came  back  to  this 
centre  of  longing.  Let  her  recover,  and  then — happiness  ! 

One  day  towards  the  end  of  March,  however,  Guinevere 
received  word  that  the  end  could  be  only  a  few  hours  delayed. 
Beth  even  then  was  lying  in  a  swoon  which  had  lasted  for 
hours,  and  from  which,  the  physicians  said,  she  would  awake  only 
to  a  few  moments'  consciousness  before  she  died.  They  were  will- 
ing she  should  go ;  the  persecuted  child  would  be  safer  there, 
wrote  Mabel.  No  love,  not  the  most  devoted,  could  shield  so 
tender  a  soul  in  this  wicked  world.  Since  there  were  demons 
here  who  delighted  in  inflicting  torture  on  the  best,  her  friends 
could  only  be  glad  of  her  release. 

The  paper  fluttered  from  Guinevere's  fingers  and  fell  to  the 
floor.  She  had  not  understood  the  last  phrases  :  she  had  only 
felt  that  there  was  no  longer  suspense  nor  hope. 

As  she  knelt  before  the  crucifix  hanging  by  her  bed,  a  knock 
came  at  the  door.  Was  it  the  final  tidings  ] 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte  d'Isteu  craves  to  see  mademoiselle," 
said  the  maid. 

"  Give  him  this,  and  say  I  cannot  see  him,"  said  Guinevere, 
thrusting  Mrs.  Trescott's  letter  into  the  girl's  hand,  and  enclos- 
ing herself  again  with  her  solitary  grief. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  in  despair,  monsieur,"  said  the  maid  pre- 
sently in  the  next  room  ;  "  she  sends  you  -this,  and  says  she  is 
too  ill  to  see  you.  She " 

M.  d'Isten  had  not  heard  her.  He  snatched  the  meaning 
from  the  blotted  page  before  him,  and  when  he  realised  what 
it  meant,  the  maid  shrank  away  from  before  his  face  and  closed 
the  door  stealthily. 

The  insuperable  loss  came  upon  him  with  a  fierceness  which 
quite  obliterated  his  reason.  He  laid  all  the  blame  on  Mabel, 
and  the  desire  for  vengeance  coming  from  his  mother's  race 
made  him  reckless  then.  His  was  the  wrath  which  does  not 
explode  but  kills.  An  explosion  may  injure  many,  but  the 
bullet  flies  surer  to  the  one  heart. 


CHAP,  x.]  LOVE'S  INSTINCT.  275 

A  few  hours  later  he  returned — he  had  rushed  out  of  the 
house — with  a  new  resolution  in  his  face.  He  insisted  on  see- 
ing Miss  Conover ;  bribed  the  maid  conclusively,  and  gave  her 
such  an  adroit  message  to  deliver  that  the  artist's  seclusion  was 
ended ;  and  she  hastened  into  the  drawing-room,  her  hair  dis- 
hevelled, and  her  cheeks  all  tear-stained  and  wan. 

"  What  is  it,  what  is  it  ? "  she  cried. 

"  I  am  convinced  Bdthesda  is  better.  Send  a  telegram  to 
her  sister  and  see.  She  will  answer  it;  I  know  she  will." 

"  There  is  no  use ;  my  darling  is  dead ! "  moaned  disap- 
pointed Guinevere. 

"  She  is  not.  Trust  me,  Miss  Conover.  Only  telegraph, 
and  you  will  see  that  I  am  right.  Miss  Margaret  Hamilton 
will  answer  you ;  she  might  not  me.  I  beseech  you,  try." 

"As  you  like,  but  it  will  only  be  to  hear  of  her  death." 

Consent  was  all  M.  d'Isten  wished.  Action  was  always  a 
relief  to  him,  and  to  whom  is  not  hope  a  tonic  1  He  spoke  a 
few  helpful  words,  borne  up  by  an  unreasoned  feeling  which 
would  not  acknowledge  fear,  and  left  Guinevere  roused  to  hope 
also.  He  haunted  the  office  until  the  reply  came,  late  at  night. 

"  She  lives.     "We  have  hope." 

The  blackness  was  passed.  Such  a  dark  period  could  not 
come  again ;  it  would  always  be  illumined  by  the  reflection  of 
this  relief. 

Miss  Conover  gave  him  both  hands  as  she  saw  his  face 
and  heard  the  good  words  which  verified  his  hope. 

"  My  sweet,  living  Lily  ! "  thought  Evra,  when  M.  d'Isten 
left,  a  great  change  in  his  face  and  carriage  and  voice,  "  we 
both  love  you,  but  I  will  support  and  comfort  you.  He  cannot, 
and  I  can.  I  am  a  woman  and  so  you  will  not  fear  me." 

And  Rene',  walking  under  the  starry  spring  skies,  thinking  of 
a  year  before,  and  the  resurrection  promised  to-night,  made  a 
vow  that  he  would  win  Be'thesda  to  the  resurrection  of  love  as 
of  life,  without  allowing  her  happiness  to  be  flawed  by  the 
knowledge  that  it  caused  any  one  pain. 


276  BETHESDA.  [['ART  ir. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

"  Ask  God  for  truth  and  He  will  give  the  divine  in  answer." 

Peace  comes,  not  by  having  naught  to  suffer,  but  by  surmounting 
suffering. 

EIGHTEEN  months  passed.  Bethesda  Hamilton  had  very 
slowly  recovered  from  the  terrible  illness  which  had  almost 
released  her  soul.  What  turned  the  trembling  balance  was  a 
perception  of  her  cowardice  in  wishing,  as  she  had  done  at  first, 
to  die.  Should  she  be  so  selfish  as  to  extinguish  the  light  her 
fiery  sufferings  might  be  to  some  other  erring  souls'?  She 
must  live  to  make  her  pains  and  her  gains  a  beacon  off  the 
rocks  of  dishonour  and  to  the  haven  of  morality. 

Her  first  thought  now  became  in  each  new  trial :  How  can 
I  make  this  serve  others?  She  constantly  sought  truth,  no 
longer  for  herself  alone;  but  a  patient  endurance,  an  active 
resignation,  an  offering  of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  to  the 
service  of  her  fellow- men,  brought  their  own  sublime  reward. 
It  was  worth  the  whole  of  her  illness  in  its  hope  alone  ;  it  was 
the  gladness  of  the  birth  of  things  immortal ;  for  in  her  soul 
was  that  grandest  of  all  conceptions,  the  belief  in  a  loving 
personal  God. 

The  great  upreaching  of  her  soul  after  truth  and  rectitude 
had  been  but  the  dawn  which  heralds  the  approach  of  day,  and 
presently  she  looked  forward  with  an  almost  ecstatic  vision  to 
the  time  when  the  world  should  be  purified  of  its  sins,  and  the 
Christian  religion  be  comprehended  in  reverence,  as  well  as  felt 
by  faith,  until  no  side  of  its  divine  beauty  would  be  dim,  but 
all  believed  with  that  assurance  which  is  beyond  faith,  because 
it  knows. 

Naturally,  for  she  was  still  a  weak  woman,  there  were  deso- 
late hours  when  the  uplifting  pinions  of  aspiration  and  hope 
drooped  helpless  at  her  sides,  their  snowy  plumage  hardly  with- 
held from  the  dust ;  when  her  passionate  nature  cried  out  for 
her  lover  and  would  not  be  stilled.  She  remembered,  and 
memory's  very  sweetness  was  well-nigh  unendurably  bitter.  For 
there  are  many  broken  threads  which  seem  but  a  hand's-breadth 
apart,  yet  the  chasm  which  separates  them  is  deep  as  death, 
and  wide  as  eternity. 


CHAP,  xi.]  A  PEECAKIOUS  BASIS.  277 

But  the  strong  instinct  of  Bethesda's  nature  towards  right 
as  of  a  plant  towards  light,  always  won  the  victory,  and  she 
recognised  how  only  the  oblivion  of  ourselves  in  a  higher  life 
than  our  own  makes  us  strong  and  serene ;  only  advancing 
over  the  bridge  which  leads  from  passion  to  renunciation  will 
take  us  from  the  malarious  districts  of  individual  life  to  the 
invigorating  regions  of  universality. 

She  was  aided  in  this  by  living  constantly  under  the  com- 
bined influences  of  Mrs.  Stanhope  and  Margaret.  Mabel,  soon 
after  Bethesda's  recovery,  had  married ;  not  loving  nor  profess- 
ing to  love,  but  glad  to  be  "  surely  first  to  some  one,"  as  she 
said,  and  feeling  that  she  could  make  her  husband  happier  than 
he  would  be  without  her. 

He  was  in  every  particular  her  counterpart.  He  was  a 
self-poised  and  strong  man,  and  upon  first  meeting  attracted 
Bethesda's  confidence.  She  saw  that,  with  time,  his  con- 
sistent force  and  intrepid  devotion  might  subdue  Mabel's  im- 
petuous inconsistencies,  and  give  the  equipoise  which  she  so 
much  needed  both  for  development  and  happiness.  His  love 
for  Mabel,  if  not  wholly  wise,  was  neither  a  blind  infatuation. 
He  had  weighed  his  chances  with  a  not  unsteady  hand,  and 
had  thrown  his  whole  fortune  on  the  hope  of  winning  her 
absolutely  some  day.  He  had  seen  that  to  do  this  irrevocability 
was  essential.  The  inevitable,  which  she  had  never  dared  to 
face,  should  be  her  possessor,  and  hold  her  for  once  firm  to  a  pur- 
pose— his  purpose,  if  not  hers.  When  there  was  once  a  solidarity 
of  interests  declared  between  them,  her  lifelong  instincts  would 
play  into  his  hands. 

So  they  had  married  and  gone  to  their  new  home  in  Cali- 
fornia, "  so  far  west  that  it  is  almost  east,"  said  Mabel ;  but 
there  were  only  a  few  swift  months  for  Mr.  Reining  to  use  in 
accomplishing  his  hoped-for  end,  when  Mabel,  in  giving  birth 
to  a  girl-baby,  died.  Bethesda  was  there  and  supported  her 
aunt  to  the  last,  and  it  was  to  her  Mrs.  Reining  left  her 
child.  The  father  was  quite  willing  to  carry  out  the  mother's 
request,  for  he  almost  hated  the  infant  which  had  stolen  his 
precious  wife's  life.  He  had,  indeed,  at  once  gone  away  on  a 
long  trip,  sailing  direct  to  China,  whence  there  was  little  pro- 
spect as  yet  of  his  returning. 

The  Misses  Hamilton,  meantime,  with  their  new  charge,  had 
decided  to  take  the  house  and  grounds  adjoining  the  Stanhopes', 


278  BETHESDA.  [PAKT  11. 

and  towards  the  end  of  the  second  October  they  were  settled 
in  their  own  establishment,  with  Aunt  Agatha  at  hand  to  call 
upon,  and  the  lives  of  all  flowing  in  that  sympathetic  unison 
which  forms  the  sweetness  of  life. 

To  Bethesda,  such  an  experience  as  her  present  one  of  quiet 
domesticity  was  peculiarly  restful.  The  longer  she  lived  in 
the  natural  conditions  of  life,  the  more  shudderingly  did  she 
look  back  on  the  unsheltered  past  and  rejoice  that  it  was 
over.  When  she  had  first  recovered  from  her  illness  she  had 
thought  there  must  be  an  impenetrable  strangeness  which 
would  separate  her,  like  a  nun's  veil,  from  the  society  in  which 
she  moved ;  but  the  foolish  notion  vanished  under  the  clear 
rays  of  common-sense  and  contact  with  the  world  in  its  usual 
phases  which  Mrs.  Stanhope  had  exerted  herself  to  bring  around 
her  nieces. 

Bethesda  soon  found  that  her  charms  were  here  neither 
sought  by  artists  to  copy,  nor  the  cause  of  despair  to  mad 
lovers.  A  certain  equipoise  of  character,  which  increased  daily 
under  the  healthy  regime  of  her  moral  surroundings,  and  interest 
rather  in  thought  than  persons,  sufficed  to  keep  on  the  boundaries 
of  pleasant  acquaintance  the  men  who  were  attracted  to  her. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  sense  of  completion  about  her  which 
robbed  her  of  the  charm  a  fancy-free  maidenhood  alone  possesses. 
Men  found  her  interested  by  larger  questions  than  mere  personal 
ones,  and  the  magnetism  which  formerly  drew  to  love,  now  drew 
to  intellectual  attainment. 

She  thought  much,  and  had  never  had  such  opportunities  to 
bring  out  the  best  in  her  as  during  the  winter,  when  the  philo- 
sophic and  literary  conversations  which  made  Mrs.  Stanhope's 
parlour  an  old  time  salon,  stimulated  her  to  activity,  while 
giving  her  the  guidance  of  noble  minds.  She  would  listen  and 
glow  with  the  exercise  of  her  highest  faculties  now,  as  she  had 
used  to  do  in  beholding  fine  scenery,  and  felt  her  insignificance 
beside  these  towering  intellects,  as  she  had  beside  the  Pyramids. 

At  present  objective  life  was  all  her  study,  for  her  personal 
strength  and  attention  were  required  for  the  baby  and  Margaret, 
whose  health  had  been  strained  by  the  long  nursing,  and  who 
clung  to  her  sister  with  that  close  pressure  which  best  staunches 
a  wound.  And  Bethesda  felt  that  no  looking  back  with  sorrow, 
nor  forward  with  apprehension,  must  sap  the  health  which  was 
dedicated  to  the  serving  of  others. 


CHAP,  xi.]  A  REVIVAL.  279 

Her  manner  of  regarding  the  past  was  thus  significantly 
altered.  She  had  heard  nothing  from  Rend  since  the  telegram 
whose  contents  had  been  communicated  to  her  when  it  was 
thought  that  she  would  die.  The  words  had  often  reassured 
her.  Rend  and  Louise  might  even  at  this  moment  be  living 
together  in  Paris,  realising  that  "  he  only  earns  his  life  who 
daily  conquers  it  anew."  This  was  her  most  hopeful  thought. 
Of  Rent's  letter  and  Madame  d'Isten's  she  knew  nothing. 
They  had  been  received  by  Mabel  and  disposed  of  as  she  saw 
fit.  Bethesda  often  wondered  if  Louise  were  angry,  but 
patiently  bore  the  lack  of  knowledge,  feeling  that  all  she  could 
do  had  been  done.  She  understood  that  she  must  recognise 
clearly  Rent's  errors  and  her  own,  and  reach  upwards  to  touch 
him  only  as  she  embraced  all,  he  being  farthest  of  all. 
She  was  sure  that  God  would  take  care  of  Rend  as  of  herself 
with  perfect  tenderness,  upholding  them  if  they  did  right, 
leading  them  to  repentance  if  they  did  wrong,  which  was  not  a 
lesser  reliance.  She  did  not  wish  herself  or  others  to  escape 
any  suffering  it  were  better  they  should  have.  Had  she  felt 
God  would  extend  a  mercy  to  her  to  cover  instead  of  eradi- 
cating her  sins,  she  would  not  have  trusted  him  as  she  did. 
Meantime  she  knew  that,  if  she  gave  her  life  into  his  hands,  he 
would  convert  all  her  evil  into  good,  by  the  divine  alchemy 
of  his  regenerative  power. 

In  the  latter  part  of  October  Mr.  Stanhope  returned  from  a 
trip  to  New  York,  and  mentioned  incidentally  having  met  a 
gentleman  who  seemed  to  know  Bethesda. 

"  He  is  the  new  French  Secretary  of  Legation  in  Washing- 
ton, I  understand.  It  may  be  he  has  only  heard  your  name  in 
connection  with  your  writing, — those  stories  of  yours  have  made 
some  sensation,  my  dear, — but  I  formed  an  opinion  that  he  had 
met  you  personally." 

"  Who  was  he  1 "  asked  Bethesda  steadily,  though  her  heart 
answered  before  him. 

"  His  name  was  d'Isten.  I  have  his  card  somewhere.  He 
had  a  title  of  some  kind ;  it  seems  to  me  they  said  marquis. 
Do  you  know  him  1 " 

"Aunt  Mabel  and  I  met  him  abroad,"  replied  Bethesda 
calmly.  "  Was  his  wife  with  him  T' 

"  His  wife  ?  No,  I  did  not  know  he  had  one.  That  is 
natural  enough,  however,"  he  went  on  after  a  momentary  pause. 


280  BETHESDA.  [PART  ir. 

"  A  man  does  not  say  much  of  private  affairs  to  a  stranger.  I 
did  not  mention  that  you  were  any  connection  of  mine,  only 
that  I  had  heard  of  you.  He  seemed  interested  in  what  I  did 
say.  He  admires  your  writings,  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  said 
he  had  translated  one  of  the  stories  into  their  French  Magazine 
— what  do  you  call  it  ? " 

"  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  t " 

"  Yes.  He  seemed  to  have  literary  tastes,  and  had  a  num- 
ber of  anecdotes  to  tell  about  literary  persons.  He  was  quite 
entertaining,  but  too  foreign  to  suit  me.  I  don't  see  how  you 
and  Mabel  managed  to  live  so  long  over  there." 

The  new  secretary  of  legation  was  soon  forgotten.  Even 
Bethesda  succeeded  in  silencing,  for  the  time,  the  importunate 
voice  within  her  which  she  had  not  fancied  could  clamour  so 
loudly  for  itself  alone  after  months  of  victorious  subjection. 

For  it  had  been  many  months,  many  years  it  seemed  to  her 
as  she  lay  awake  that  night,  since  that  Christmas  when  her 
decision  to  deny  herself  and  Rene'  all,  had  been  made.  It  was 
more  than  two  years  since  they  had  met,  and  once  more  they 
were  on  the  same  side  of  the  Atlantic.  What  did  this  mean  1 
A  hundred  perturbing  possibilities  suggested  themselves  as  un- 
foldings  of  the  present.  Deeds  draw  an  endless  chain  of  con- 
sequences ;  what  was  the  next  link  which  would  come  to  her  ? 

Finally  Bethesda  put  the  thoughts  all  aside,  as  the  dawn 
came  creeping  in.  She  remembered  what  Mrs.  Stanhope  had 
said  to  her  once  : 

"  The  course  of  events  cannot  be  disturbed,  nor  evaded. 
Do  as  near  right  as  you  can,  and  leave  the  rest  to  God." 

She  sent  for  Marcot  the  next  day,  and  asked  him  to  give 
her  back  the  paper  with  which  she  had  entrusted  him  before 
she  was  ill. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  do  so  at  once,  madame,"  he 
replied,  "  I  left  it  with  a  banker  in  New  York." 

"  Why  so  1    When  was  that  1 " 

"  Before  madame  your  aunt  was  married,  madame.  Per- 
haps Madame  Reming  communicated  to  my  mistress  a  rebuke 
she  gave  me  ?  She  wished  to  discharge  me." 

"  I  have  heard  of  it."  There  had  indeed  been  a  stiff  battle 
between  Mabel  and  Agatha  on  this  subject,  but  Agatha  had  won. 

"My  mistress  will  understand  that  then  the  surest  way  of 
fulfilling  her  wishes  was  to  put  the  paper  out  of  my  hands." 


CHAP,  xi.]  DIPLOMACY.  281 

"Very  well.  I  have  no  doubt  you  did  it  for  the  best. 
Send  for  it  now,  however,  and  give  it  to  me  immediately." 

"  My  mistress  has  not  lost  confidence  in  me  ? "  ventured 
Marcot  humbly. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  You  have  been  devoted  to  me  and  my 
interests.  Those  papers  were  only  given  you  to  deliver  in  case 
of  my  speedy  death.  I  now  wish  to  have  them  again  myself." 

"  As  my  mistress  desires,"  said  Marcot  obediently,  but  he 
lingered. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me  1 "  asked  Miss  Hamilton 
presently. 

"  If  my  mistress  would  permit, — it  may  be  of  service  to 
my  mistress  to  know  that  the  person  whose  name  was  on  her 
letter  is  in  America." 

"  Very  well.  You  have  done  your  duty  in  telling  me,  and 
now  I  wish  you  to  consider  it  your  duty  not  to  mention  him 
again.  That  is  all  I  shall  want  of  you  now." 

It  was  a  week  after  she  had  received  and  destroyed  the 
sealed  paper  she  had  requested,  and  which  contained  all  Rend's 
letters  to  her,  as  well  as  one  from  her  to  him,  none  of  which, 
she  was  sure,  had  been  tampered  with,  that  there  came  a  call 
at  the  telephone  from  Mr.  Stanhope. 

Mrs;  Stanhope  was  away,  and  Uncle  Raleigh  on  such  occa- 
sions took  his  meals  with  his  nieces,  feeling  perfectly  at  home 
there.  Now  he  asked,  with  customary  formality,  if  he  could 
bring  up  a  friend  to  dine.  The  answer  was  :  "  Certainly," 
but  in  a  few  moments  another  call  was  made,  and  Bethesda 
asked  for. 

"  It  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of  meeting  in  New  York. 
He  has  excellent  letters  from  Washington,  and  I  would  like  to 
offer  him  some  hospitality.  Do  you  object  in  any  way  to  his 
coming  to  your  house  1 " 

Bethesda  felt  all  the  blood  leave  the  surface  of  her  body, 
and  crowd  to  her  heart.  For  an  instant  she  could  not  speak 
or  move.  It  had,  in  spite  of  all,  taken  her  completely  by  sur- 
prise. She  had  not  imagined  him  as  making  so  bold  a  stroke. 

"  Please  postpone  the  invitation,"  she  contrived  at  last  to 
say. 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Stanhope,  and  closed  the  current. 

Bethesda  went  into  the  study,  and  sat  down  at  her  desk 
and  let  her  head  fall  on  her  hands.  What  was  she  to  do  1 


282  BETHESDA.  [PAUT  n. 

What  could  she  say  that  would  not  be  unjust,  and  yet  would 
keep  them  separated  ?  For  this  had  become  the  one  urgent  aim, 
excluding  all  others.  She  could  not  see  him  unless  she  knew 
more,  it  was  her  duty  not  to  meet  him ;  and,  moreover,  she 
could  not. 

Then  she  felt  Margaret's  arms  around  her,  the  visible  pre- 
sence of  tender  sympathy. 

"  Margaret,"  she  said  abruptly,  for  she  had  no  secrets  from 
her  sister,  "Monsieur  d'Isten  is  in  the  city.  He  has  letters  of 
introduction  to  uncle,  and  was  to  have  come  here  to  dine  to- 
night. I  asked  uncle  to  postpone  it,  so  as  to  give  me  at  least 
time  to  think.  Now,  what  am  I  to  do  ? " 

"  Uncle  will  trust  you  without  a  word  of  question.  You 
have  only  to  say  you  do  not  wish  to  meet  M.  d'Isten." 

"  But  the  question  is,  What  does  it  mean  ?  He  comes  here 
without  his  wife ;  he  has  excellent  letters  of  introduction  to 
uncle,  and  what  does  it  mean  ?  What,  rather,  can  I  do  to  keep 
him  away  ? " 

"  You  must  keep  him  away  by  some  means,  that  is  sure, 
but  I  don't  think  anything  more  than  an  expression  of  your 
desire  not  to  meet  him  will  be  necessary.  Aunt  Agatha  will 
be  home  to-morrow,  and  then  she  can  entertain  him,  and  uncle 
will  take  delicate  care  of  you ;  he  would  respect  your  least  wish." 

"  True,  and  how  good  it  is  to  be  protected,  to  be  sheltered  ! 
I  understand  better  now  that  I  have  spoken  to  you.  It  startled 
me  so  at  first,  I  could  hardly  think." 

Mr.  Stanhope  did  not  mention  M.  d'Isten's  name  until 
Bethesda  first  inquired  about  him,  which  was  after  Marcot  had 
placed  the  dessert  upon  the  table.  She  was  looking  peculiarly 
lovely  to-night,  thought  her  uncle,  although  a  little  tired ;  but 
her  voice  was  quite  natural  as  she  mentioned  his  message. 

"  By  whom  was  M.  d'Isten  introduced  1 "  she  asked. 

"  By  Mr. ,  an  old  friend  of  mine  in  the  cabinet.  He 

writes  in  the  highest  terms  of  this  Frenchman,  whom,  it  seems, 
he  knew  in  Paris  on  some  diplomatic  business.  Here  is  the 
letter.  Read  it  after  dinner.  He  says  any  attentions  given  to 
him  would  be  considered  as  a  personal  favour.  M.  d'Isten  has 
made  a  powerful  friend  there." 

"  Has  he,  indeed  ?"  exclaimed  Margaret,  with  frank  curiosity. 
"  Who  then  is  this  remarkable  man  ?  Is  he  young  or  old  1 
Married  or  single  ?  Have  you  seen  him  here  1 " 


-.  xi.]  RESIGNATION.  283 

Mr.  Stanhope  glanced  at  Bethesda  in  some  surprise ;  she 
had  not  told  her  sister  then  1  He  answered  readily,  how- 
ever: 

"He  brought  me  the  letter  and  stayed  some  time  in  my 
office.  He  is  well-bred  and  intelligent,  but  a  reserved  man,  I 
should  say.  He  seems  desirous  to  please.  If  he  is  married  he 
did  not  say  so  ;  I  should  have  liked  him  better  if  he  had.  I 
should  have  preferred,  too,  his  mentioning  Bethesda,  since  he 
met  her  abroad,  and  probably  learned  in  Washington  that  I  was 
her  uncle.  I  like  a  man  who  isn't  afraid  to  claim  acquaintance 
with  anybody.  However,  with  such  a  letter  I  should  like  to 
pay  him  some  attention." 

He  looked  at  Bethesda  keenly.  She  said  nothing  for  a 
moment,  then  lifted  inscrutably  candid  eyes  to  his  face,  and  re- 
plied in  a  low,  steady  voice  : 

"  Uncle,  you  know  Aunt  Mabel  and  I  became  acquainted 
with  Monsieur  d'Isten  abroad.  We  liked  him  very  much  for  a 
time,  then  there  came  up  a — a  misunderstanding,  I  will  call  it, 
and  the  acquaintance  was  entirely  broken  off.  Aunt  Mabel 
never  forgave  him,  and,  although  I  think  she  was  unjust  to  him, 
I  am  not  sufficiently  well  satisfied  with  his  actions,  or  our  own, 
to  wish  to  meet  him — now.  You  might  tell  him  that  you  would 
be  glad  to  invite  him  here,  but  I  had  asked  you  not  to  do  so. 
Yes,  this  would  be  best,  I  think  it  would  make  him  clearly 
understand,  and  would  avert  our  meeting  in  the  future." 

There  was  an  uncontrollable  sadness  in  her  voice  now  which 
stirred  both  her  listeners.  Mr.  Stanhope  filled  her  glass  with 
wine,  and  his  hand  trembled  in  so  doing.  To  cover  it  he  said 
quickly : 

"  Just  as  you  choose.  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  mention 
you  at  all,  if  you  prefer." 

"  Yes,  you  had  better  say  I  requested  this  of  you,  unless  it 
would  be  awkward  for  you  1 " 

"  Oh  no ;  if  you  think  it  best,  I  can  easily  manage  it.  I 
told  him  when  your  message  came  that  I  was  obliged  to  delay 
the  dinner,  and  that  I  would  call  at  his  hotel  in  the  morning. 
I  can  give  him  your  message  then,  although  not  in  the  form  of 
one  of  course,  and,  at  the  same  time,  tell  him  I  expect  my  wife 
home  at  noon,  and  ask  him  to  dine  with  us  the  next  day.  That 
will  be  all  right.  You  need  not  worry  at  all." 

It  was  a  quiet  but  hard  evening  to  Bethesda.     Neighbours 


284  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

came  in,  and  they  sat  talking  in  the  library  where  Bethesda 
herself  had  closed  the  lower  shutters  which  Marcot,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  had  left  open. 

As  they  went  away,  quite  late,  Bethesda  stood  a  few 
moments  in  the  balmy,  Indian-summer  air,  looking  up  at  the 
stars  which  had  so  often  seemed  to  watch  her  destiny.  So,  he 
was  a  marquis.  Well,  his  father  had  been  an  old  man  two 
years  before,  but  it  must  have  been  a  deep  grief  to  the  son. 
He  loved  his  father.  And  his  wife  ?  Those  were  the  two  ties 
which  held  him  bound  to  Europe,  he  had  once  told  her,  and 
now  he  was  here 

A  man's  figure  stirred  under  the  trees  opposite.  She  turned 
hastily  and  went  in. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Our  life  is  lent 

From  first  to  last,  the  whole,  for  this  experiment, 
Of  proving  what  I  say, — that  we  ourselves  are  true  ! " 

EGBERT  BROWNING. 

THAT  same  evening  Marcot  stood  before  his  former  master,  be- 
tokening by  profuse  salutations  his  pleasure  at  again  being  able 
to  speak  with  one  whom  he  had  loved  from  boyhood. 

"  Has  your  mistress  mentioned  me  in  your  hearing  ? "  were 
Rene*  d'Isten's  first  words  when  the  delighted  greetings  had 
been  received,  and  very  pleasantly  too. 

"  It  is  just  now  that  she  called  me  and  gave  me  a  warning, 
monsieur  le  marquis,"  replied  Marcot.  "  She  commanded  me 
to  carry  no  word,  or  letter,  or  message  whatever  from  you  to 
her,  monsieur ;  she  said  that  if  I  did  so  that  moment  would  be 
my  last  in  her  service.  Pardon  me,  monsieur  le  marquis,  but 
you  desire  me  to  repeat  her  words?" 

"Certainly;  and  you  think  she  meant  them?" 
"  She  never  uses  such  words  idly,  monsieur." 
"Very  likely  not."     He  sat  and  thought  a  few  moments  in 
silence.     Did  this  indicate  disapproval  1     Or  was  it  fear  of  her- 
self as  well  as  of  him1?     In  any  case  he  could  not  but  admire 
the  position  she  took,  knowing  no  more  than  she  did. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said  presently  to  the  man  waiting  before 
him.  "  Tell  me  all  I  should  wish  to  know." 


CHAP,  xii.]  GAINING  NEWS.  285 

Thereupon  ensued  a  tale  which  Bethesda  would  have  been 
astounded  to  hear.  Not  that  it  was  untrue ;  quite  the  contrary. 
So  accurate  had  been  the  man's  perceptions  of  all  that  came 
within  his  scope  of  mind,  so  acute  his  surmises,  and  so  excellent 
his  memory,  that  she  would  have  felt  her  life  unveiled  of  at 
least  all  its  outer  coverings  before  Kene'  d'Isten's  keen  eyes. 
Marcot  was  a  kind  of  genius  in  his  way ;  he  would  have  made 
his  fortune  as  a  detective ;  his  master  had  known  and  chosen 
well  when  he  gave  him  this  position  of  confidence. 

He  praised  him  now,  and  added  a  more  convertible  reward, 
and  then  asked  carelessly  : 

"  Did  she  appear  to  suspect  anything  about  the  letter  you 
left  with  your  so-called  banker  1 " 

"  Nothing,  monsieur  le  marquis.  She  has  too  white  a  soul 
to  suspect." 

"  So  you  are  thoroughly  devoted  to  her,  eh  1  Well,  you 
are  right,  Marcot.  I  wish  I  could  be  in  your  place." 

"  She  is  the  kindest  of  ladies,  monsieur ;  I  thank  you  for 
giving  me  so  good  a  position." 

"And  she  has  no  pretendants,  you  sayl" 

"  None,  monsieur.  There  are  many  who  would  gladly  be 
so  did  she  permit  it,  but  there  is  an  air  de  reine  about  her 
which  prevents  impertinence." 

"  Is  she  too  delicate  yet  to  bear  a  surprise  ?" 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  she  is  very  frail !  And  she  has  suffered  so 
much !  No  one  who  did  not  see  her  during  that  dreadful 
illness  knows  what  woman  can  endure.  Be  careful  of  her,  I 
beseech  you,  monsieur  ! " 

"  Tranquillise  yourself,  Marcot.  She  is  in  no  danger  from 
me."  Then,  with  a  knowledge  of  the  man's  French  heart,  he 
gave  him  the  most  salient  bits  of  news  from  his  home  and 
people. 

"  And  monsieur  your  father  died 1 " 

"  Only  a  short  time  since.  He  had  a  return  of  the  old 
paralysis  from  his  wounds,  and  was  in  constant  danger  of  death, 
for  which  he  came  to  pray.  I  was  with  him  from  the  first. 
He  spoke  of  you,  Marcot,  only  the  day  before  he  died.  You 
shall  choose  your  own  place  on  the  estate  when  you  have  done 
what  there  is  to  do  here,  or  if  your  mistress  should  dismiss 
you.  I  know  I  can  trust  you,  but  be  discreet ;  don't  run  any 
risks.  If  she  should  question  you She  never  has,  you 


286  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

say  ?  Well,  it  may  come,  and  then  be  careful  what  you  say. 
I  am  here  on  diplomatic  business,  and  shall  remain  indefinitely, — 
in  America,  I  mean.  I  came  to  this  city  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  her  uncle.  The  circumstances  of  my  life  have  changed, 
much  changed.  Specify  my  father's  death  if  she  presses  you 
closely.  Don't  mention  Madame  d'Isten.  If  she  asks  for  her, 
say  you  have  heard  nothing,  but  assure  her,  with  significance, 
that  my  circumstances  are  altered.  Come  again  to-morrow 
evening  at  this  same  hour,  if  possible.  I  expect  to  dine  out, 
and  may  wish  to  give  you  new  instructions.  Leave  the  shutters 
open  every  evening ;  I  saw  your  mistress  close  them  to-night. 
She  is  taller  than  she  was,  and  her  hair  seems  darker.  Has 
she  changed  much  during  her  illness  ?  I  could  not  see  her  face." 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  ever,  monsieur  le  marquis. 
She  has  the  serenity  of  a  saint, — ah,  you  should  have  seen  her, 
monsieur,  with  Madame  Eeming! — and  her  tenderness  to  that 
baby " 

"Bien,  bien,  Marcot.  I  see  plainly  that  if  a  man  cannot 
hope  to  be  a  hero  to  his  valet,  your  mistress  is  nothing  less 
than  perfect  to  you !  And  I  believe  you  are  not  far  wrong." 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Stanhope  returned  and  found  her  husband 
so  anxious  to  do  something  at  once  for  this  well-introduced 
stranger,  that  Aunt  Agatha  invited  a  hasty  company  to  meet 
him  that  same  evening,  trusting  to  her  nieces  to  help  her  in 
preparations. 

"  For  although  you  do  not  wish  to  meet  him  there  is  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  come  to  my  house,  is  there,  Bethesda  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  None,  I  think,  Aunt  Agatha."  Was  he  not  as  innocent 
as  she  who  had  made  her  home  with  Mrs.  Stanhope  ? 

Bethesda  was  very  busy  all  the  afternoon  arranging  the  fruits 
and  flowers  on  the  table  and  in  the  parlours  of  her  aunt's  home. 
Marcot  brought  basket  after  basket  of  blossoms  from  the  green- 
house, and  she  went  from  one  room  to  another  with  the  baby 
on  her  arm — the  little  May-Flower  had  been  ailing  the  last  day 
or  two — leaving  each  a  bower,  hardly  conscious  of  how  much 
beauty  she  was  causing.  Indeed,  it  was  not  until  the  baby 
demanded  undivided  attention,  and  she  seated  herself  in  a  low 
rocker  to  hush  it  to  sleep,  that  she  realised  how  she  had  lavished 
the  wealth  of  a  garden  in  decorations  to  honour  the  coming  of  a 
man  she  must  never  see. 


CHAP,  xii.]  A  MEETING.  287 

Just  as  this  thought  came  over  her  Mrs.  Stanhope  entered 
already  dressed,  and  exclaimed  at  the  lovely  effect  of  the  rooms. 

"  But  you  must  go  at  once,  dear.  It  is  almost  time  for 
them  to  be  coming.  Here,  nurse,  take  the  baby,  and  call  Miss 
Margaret." 

Bethesda  had  hurried  away  at  the  first  word,  like  a  startled 
fawn,  but  stood  in  the  western  porch  a  moment  waiting  for  her 
sister.  Her  white  dress  was  caught  up  over  one  arm,  and  a 
red  silk  shawl  was  thrown  around  her  shoulders ;  her  hair  was 
low  in  her  neck,  and  her  eyes,  shadowed  by  weariness,  were 
dark  and  brilliant. 

Kens'  d'Isten  coming  up  the  pathway  a  little  early  discovered 
Bethesda  standing  there,  the  reflections  of  a  warm  sunset  about 
her,  alone.  The  implacable  distance  which  had  so  long  separated 
them  seemed  but  a  step  to  be  trod  in  triumph  before  he  should 
hold  her  to  his  heart. 

Then  Margaret  joined  her,  and  the  two  sped  across  the  lawn, 
Renews  thirsty  eyes  following  them.  He  dared  not  pursue ;  it 
would  be  only  self-defeat. 

He  went  up  the  steps  and  was  immediately  ushered  into  the 
garden  Bethesda  had  made.  He  knew  she  had.  He  could  feel 
the  touches  of  her  light  fingers  on  every  leaf  and  stem.  There 
was  her  portrait,  too,  in  the  library.  He  had  last  seen  it 
when 

"  The  Marquis  d'Isten,  I  believe  1 "  said  a  courteous  voice 
near  him,  and  turning  he  saw  his  hostess.  "  I  am  Mrs.  Stan- 
hope. I  am  sorry  Mr.  Stanhope  is  not  here  to  welcome  you. 
He  was  detained,  but  will  be  down  immediately." 

"It  is  my  fault,  madame.  My  coming  was  hastened  too 
much,  I  perceive,  by  my  great  desire  to  meet  you.  I  was  just 
renewing  my  acquaintance  with  this  beautiful  portrait  of  one 
who  has  often  spoken  to  me  of  Madame  Stanhope.  I  trust 
Mademoiselle  Hamilton  is  well1?" 

"  Thanks,  quite  well.  Be  seated,  pray.  Have  you  been 
long  in  America  1 " 

"  Several  weeks,  madame.  It  has  cost  me  much  to  be  so 
long  in  a  land  where  I  flattered  myself  I  might  find  friends 
and  not  seek  them,  but  I  was  obliged  to  identify  myself  with 
my  position  before  I  could  take  this  great  pleasure.  It  grieves 
me  deeply  to  learn  that  I  may  now  never  meet  one  who  honoured 
me  with  her  friendship,  Madame  Trescott,  as  I  knew  her." 


288  BETHESDA.  [PART  11. 

"  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  you  were  my  sister's  friend  1 " 
inquired  Mrs.  Stanhope  in  a  tone  Rend  thought  icy. 

"  Indeed,  madame,  she  never  had  one  more  devoted  !  Un- 
happily a  misunderstanding  arose,  which  I  the  more  profoundly 
regret,  as  I  find  Miss  Hamilton  considers  it  her  duty  not  to  allow 
me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her,  to  which  I  had  looked  forward 
with  eagerness.  I  assure  you,  madame,  that  no  misunder- 
standings can  ever  eradicate  from  my  heart  sentiments  of  the 
greatest  esteem  for  both  your  sister  and  your  niece." 

He  said  this  with  much  dignity,  and  an  air  penetrated  with 
regret,  but  Mrs.  Stanhope  Avas  not  touched. 

"  You  are  kind,"  she  replied  gravely.  "  If  you  please,  how- 
ever, we  will  not  return  to  the  past.  Our  acquaintance  dates 
from  to-day.  I  am  pleased  to  be  able  to  receive  a  gentleman 
so  highly  commended  by  Secretary  C ." 

Mr.  Stanhope  here  joined  them,  and  other  guests  soon 
arrived.  Rend  d'Isten  put  aside  all  wounded  pride  and  made 
himself  as  agreeable  as  'he  knew  how  to  be,  which  is  saying 
much.  The  impression  he  conveyed  was  most  felicitous.  His 
appearance  was  said  to  be  distinguished ;  his  manner  perfection ; 
his  conversation  brilliant  without  being  obtrusive.  His  praise 
of  America  was  both  discriminating  and  warm  ;  his  knowledge 
of  our  institutions  peculiarly  accurate.  Every  one  was  charmed 
with  him,  even  Mr.  Stanhope,  except  the  one  he  especially 
wished  to  win — "  Aunt  Agatha." 

The  difference  between  the  masculine  and  feminine  was  well 
marked  here.  The  quite  easy  conjecture  Raleigh  Stanhope 
might  have  made  as  to  the  cause  of  Bethesda's  withdrawal 
from  the  society  of  this  man  did  not  once  occur  to  him.  To 
think  of  Bethesda  in  connection  with  anything  not  crystal-clear 
and  pure  would  have  seemed  to  any  of  her  friends  an  unpardon- 
able insult.  But  Mrs.  Stanhope,  with  her  more  discerning  eyes 
and  intuitive  perceptions,  had  discovered,  not  alone  in  Bethesda's 
case,  that  the  fault  from  which  we  consider  others  most  exempt 
is  probably  the  one  they  have  fought  the  hardest.  Only  through 
battle  can  come  that  victory  which  is  clothed  in  white  raiment. 

M.  d'Isten  also  had  been  observing  and  planning  swiftly. 
As  he  took  his  leave  he  said  to  his  hostess  : 

"May  I  have  the  honour  of  calling  upon  you  in  the  morn- 
ing 1  My  time  is  somewhat  limited,  or  I  would  not  intrude  so 
soon  after  this  delightful  evening." 


CHAP,  xii.]  A  PURPOSEFUL  CALL.  289 

"  You  have  given  it  its  success.  I  shall  be  at  home,  and 
glad  to  see  you  any  time  to-morrow  after  eleven." 

When  Margaret  went  to  her  room  that  evening,  after  a  little 
chat  with  Aunt  Agatha  to  hear  of  "  this  wonderful  man,"  she 
found  Bethesda  sitting  by  the  little  Mary's  crib  patting  her  to 
sleep.  The  child  had  been  restless,  and  Bethesda  could  always 
soothe  her  best.  To  Margaret  there  was  a  very  pathetic  touch 
in  the  simple  picture  then.  The  ways  of  Providence  seemed 
almost  more  inscrutable  to  her  than  when  she  had  seen  Bethesda 
in  the  relentless  clutches  of  physical  agony.  There  are  many 
losses  for  which  death  seems  to  compensate. 

The  next  morning  M.  d'Isten  presented  himself  promptly  at 
Mrs.  Stanhope's  door.  He  had  told  the  coachman  to  drive 
slowly,  and,  well  back  in  the  corner,  had  studied  with  the 
keenest  eyes  the  adjacent  house.  On  the  porch  was  the  little 
dot  of  humanity  which  he  knew  to  be  Mabel's  child.  Somebody 
was  sitting  in  the  shadow.  He  bent  forward  eagerly,  but  only 
to  see  the  cap  and  apron  of  a  nurse.  Mascot  was  in  the  garden 
gathering  flowers.  As  the  carriage  passed  he  glanced  up  care- 
lessly at  the  windows  of  a  room  on  the  second  floor.  Behind 
the  half-drawn  curtains  could  be  seen  a  figure  with  bent  head, 
the  shapely  head  Rene'  knew  so  well.  So,  she  was  writing. 
He  dismissed  his  carriage  at  the  gate.  He  preferred  to  walk 
back.  Some  opportunity  might  occur  for — what  1 

The  flowers  in  the  shadowy  parlours  were  drooping  a  little, 
but  were  still  lovely,  and  down  on  them  all  looked  the  jasmine 
face  of  Esda.  He  had  not  liked  the  portrait  in  London ;  here 
he  felt  that  he  would  give  all  he  possessed  in  exchange  for  it, 
unless 

Again  Mrs.  Stanhope  interrupted  his  contemplation.  She 
greeted  him  with  a  fine  reserve,  which  was  exceedingly  charac- 
teristic of  the  woman.  Perhaps  she  felt  it  the  more  because 
there  was  a  gravity  in  his  manner  now  which  ingratiated  him  in 
her  favour. 

With  very  little  preamble  he  set  before  her  the  object  of  his 
visit.  It  was  not  alone  one  of  courtesy,  although  he  anticipated 
leaving  soon,  as  he  had  told  her ;  nor  was  it  solely  a  desire  to- 
see  again  the  sister  of  Madame  Trescott  and  aunt  of  Miss 
Hamilton,  although  he  was  sure,  he  need  not  say,  this  would 
have  brought  him  far;  but  there  was  a  very  serious  purpose  in  his 
mind  to  which  he  ventured  to  hope  she  would  listen  with  kindness. 


290  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

"  You  come  to  me,  then,  on  the  understanding  that  I  am 
to  receive  you  as  the  chaperone  of  my  niece  Bethesda  1 " 

He  glanced  at  her  with  sudden  scrutiny  as  she  thus  ignored 
her  sister,  but  replied  without  delay  : 

"  Precisely,  madame.  Miss  Hamilton  has  often  told  me  you 
were  just,  a  quality  so  rare  that  one  cannot  over  appreciate  it. 
I  appeal,  madame,  to  your  justice." 

"I  am  willing  to  listen,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

"  May  I  then  dare  to  ask  you,  madame " 

"  You  were  to  speak,  not  to  question,"  returned  Mrs.  Stan- 
hope, a  smile  hovering  about  her  firm  lips. 

"  I  understand.  Pray  understand  me  also.  I  cannot  speak 
as  I  would  unless  some  one  has  spoken  before  me.  Allow  me 
to  ask  you,  then,  if  you  know  of  the  cause  of  the  alienation 
between  Madame  Trescott  and  myself  1 " 

"  I  have  never  been  told." 

"  But  you  surmise.  Bien,  I  shall  be  unable  to  speak  with 
the  distinctness  I  would  have  chosen;  but  I  trust  you  will 
comprehend." 

A  silence  ensued,  during  which  Mrs.  Stanhope  studied 
him  keenly.  He  was  at  once  dignified  and  skilful ;  he  was  a 
man  of  undeniably  subtle  power.  What  would  he  say  ? 

"Madame,"  he  resumed  at  last,  "this  is  a  matter  which 
touches  to  the  fibres  of  my  honour  and  my  life.  To  Mr.  Stan- 
hope, who  kindly  gave  me  an  opportunity  for  explanation,  I 
could  not  speak.  He  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  I  need 
one  who  has,  and,  moreover,  a  woman,  who  can  understand." 

"  I  am  not  sentimental,"  remarked  Mrs.  Stanhope  drily. 

"  I  should  have  been  blind  to  have  supposed  it,"  was  the 
quick  retort.  "Nor  is  it  to  sentimentality  that  I  wish  to 
appeal ;  no — only  to  the  justice  which  Miss  Hamilton  assured 
me  I  should  find  in  you." 

"  Proceed." 

"  When  I  first  met  your  sister  it  was  at  a  time  when  my 
own  life  was  wrecked.  The  details  are  unnecessary,  the  fact  is 
sufficient ;  to  me  it  was  terrible.  I  had  enjoyed  several  weeks 
of  delightful  companionship  with  your  sister  when  a  misunder- 
standing arose,  which  was  afterwards,  in  Italy,  explained  to  her 
satisfaction.  I  did  not  see  Miss  Hamilton  until  Mrs.  Trescott 
had  restored  to  me  her  approval,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  the 


CHAP,  xii.]  A  REVIEW.  291 

house  where  they  were  staying  on  my  return  from  Rome.  I 
was  charmed  to  do  so,  and  there,  very  gradually,  I  became 
acquainted  with  Miss  Hamilton.  Immediately  before  leaving 
Florence  I  learned  that  Miss  Hamilton  wrote.  At  this  juncture 
I  was  guilty  of  building  an  air-castle.  I  conceived  the  thought 
that  I  might  prevail  upon  Miss  Hamilton  to  take  the  efforts  of 
my  pen,  which  had  never  been  of  sufficient  value  to  encourage 
me  to  brave  the  terrors  of  the  press,  and  with  her  exquisite 
tact  and  feminine  capacity  work  them  over  into  a  shape  which 
might  be  of  use  to  her  and  would  be  glory  to  me.  In  Paris  I 
proposed  this  scheme ;  Miss  Hamilton  was  gracious  enough  to 
accept  it ;  Mrs.  Trescott  looked  upon  it  with  vague  alarm." 

"It  should  not  have  been  vague,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope 
decisively. 

"You  are  right,  madame.  It  was  a  dangerous  experiment. 
I  did  not  see  it  as  such  until  the  end  came,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  look  back  by  the  lurid  light  of  suffering  on  what  I  had  inno- 
cently proposed.  That  it  was  done  innocently  I  do  not  know 
how  I  can  persuade  you,  unless  you  believe  my  simple  word. 
It  may  be  small  to  you ;  to  me  it  is  all." 

"  There  are  times  when  thoughtlessness  is  a  crime." 

"  True,  madame.     It  has  been  punished  as  such." 

He  glanced  appealingly,  yet  with  dignity,  at  the  face  of  his 
interlocutor.  It  was  grave  and  silent.  He  resumed  with  an 
introverted  earnestness  : 

"  The  end  came  as  I  leave  you  to  imagine.  I  know  you 
will  do  Miss  Hamilton  no  injustice,  and  I  hope  you  will  not 
judge  me  with  undue  severity.  The  ladies  returned  to  America. 
The  conflict  of  customs,  probably  your  wisdom,  but  more  than 
all,  I  believe,  her  own  inalienable  sense  of  right  brought  recog- 
nition of  the  errors  of  the  past.  She  benefited  me  as  no  one 
else  could  have  done,  but  she  suffered  cruelly  for  her  benevolence. 
Can  you  imagine  what  it  was  to  me  to  hear  of  her  tortures,  and 
know  that  I — / — had  helped  to  inflict  them  upon  her  ] " 

"  Where  was  your  wife  V  asked  Mrs.  Stanhope,  with  chilling 
calm. 

"  I  wrote  to  her  to  come  to  me.  Miss  Hamilton  wrote  her 
the  same.  She  was  unable  to  do  so  at  the  time,  and  I  went  to 
her.  I  told  her  all  there  was  to  tell.  She  preferred  to  still 
remain  with  her  mother.  I  returned  to  Paris.  Through  a 
friend  of  Miss  Hamilton's,  to  whom  Mrs.  Trescott  occasionally 


292  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

wrote,  I  heard  of — of  your  niece's  hopeless  condition.  Weeks 
of  excruciating  suspense  followed.  Just  as  they  ended,  by  our 
hearing  that  you  had  hope,  news  came  of  my  father's  sudden 
prostration.  I  hastened  to  his  side  and  nursed  him  through  a 
long  illness.  When  he  died  my  mind  could  no  longer  bear  the 
strain  so  long  put  upon  it.  I  was  for  weeks  in  a  condition  of 
which  I  have  no  remembrance.  When  I  recovered " 

"  Madame  !  madame  ! "  cried  Marcot,  entering  the  room  with- 
out ceremony.  "  The  baby  is  in  a  convulsion.  Miss  Margaret 
begs  you  will  come  at  once." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  already  at  the  door,  and 
vanished. 

"Gome  to-night  at  ten  without  fail,"  said  M.  d'Isten  to 
Marcot.  "  No  excuses ;  you  did  your  duty." 

Again  Mabel,  in  the  form  of  her  child,  had  interfered  ! 
Had  this  interview,  then,  been  all  in  vain  1  Should  he  never 
reach  Be'thesda?  he  asked  himself,  as  he  walked  slowly  past 
the  house  where  a  sudden  commotion  prevailed.  Be'thesda  was 
there,  there- !  and  he  could  not  see  her  ! 

He  sent  in  the  afternoon  to  inquire  of  the  child's  condition 
at  Mrs.  Stanhope's.  It  was  better,  but  still  very  ilL  She 
would  be  unable  to  see  him  for  an  indefinite  period.  But 
patience  is  a  good  palfrey ;  she  had  served  his  turn  before  now ; 
he  would  ride  her  to  the  end. 

He  left  the  city  that  evening  after  new  instructions  to 
Marcot.  His  determination  was  only  screwed  tighter  by  these 
obstacles  which  impeded  his  lines  of  conduct.  By  some  means 
he  would  win  Be'thesda's  side,  and  thence  he  never  doubted 
but  that  he  could  touch  her  heart. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

"Do  what  your  heart  tells  you;  yes,  Aspasia,  do  all  it  tells  you. 
Remember  how  august  it  is  :  it  contains  the  temple  not  only  of  Love,  but 
of  Truth,  and  a  whisper  is  heard  from  the  extremity  of  one  to  the 
extremity  of  the  other.  .  .  .  May  the  beautiful  feet  of  Aspasia  stand 
firm  ! " — LANDOR. 

SEVERAL  weeks  passed  without  Bethesda's  hearing  anything 
more  of  Rene'  d'Isten ;  but  they  were  not  very  calm  ones  to  her. 
She  was  thankful  to  have  been  busy  ;  that  was  always  a  gain. 


CHAP,  xiii.]  GUINEVERE.  293 

On  the  little  May-Flower's  recovery  she  had  taken  to  writing 
in  order  to  clarify  her  mind.  In  communion  thus  with  her 
ideal  could  she  always  best  form  practical  resolutions. 

She  knew  that  this  pause  was  only  preparative  to  an 
onslaught  which  would  strive  to  be  irresistible,  and  she  thought 
deeply,  looking  on  every  side  of  the  question  which  had  anew 
come  to  her  to  solve.  It  was  not  without  difficulty  that  at  last 
she  put  all  away  from  her  except  her  own  subjective  knowledge, 
and  tried  to  wait  in  peace. 

One  morning  in  December  there  came  a  letter  from 
Guinevere  containing  the  long-anticipated  announcement  that 
she  was  to  sail  immediately  for  New  York,  where  she  was  to 
replace  an  inefficient  singer  under  the  same  management  which 
had  engaged  her  for  the  London  season,  and  that  she  looked 
forward  eagerly  to  receiving  the  one  word  of  praise  which  would 
to  her  excel  all  others. 

"  It  is  so  cruelly  long  since  I  have  seen  you,  dearest,"  she 
wrote.  "  My  voice  has  improved,  I  know  that,  but  will  you 
find  hardness  and  mannerisms  in  me  1  Oh  believe,  dear,  that 
there  is  always  the  softest  of  nests  in  my  heart  for  you,  where 
you  lie  amid  the  fair  roses  you  resemble.  I  know  if  you  have 
changed  it  is  only  to  become  more  lovely  and  beloved,  and  I  am 
afraid  of  nothing  except  that  you  will  be  shocked  by  the  rough- 
ness this  life  has  left  upon  me. 

"  You  wi]l  come  to  New  York  to  visit  me  1  You  know  I 

can't  get  out  to  S for"  an  age  after  I  reach  America,  and  I 

can't  wait  to  see  you.  You  will  manage  it  1 " 

This  letter  roused  and  enlivened  Bethesda  remarkably.  She 
had  grown  a  little  thin  and  worn  of  late,  but  this  good  news 
seemed  to  quite  restore  her  spirits.  Every  one  thought  the 
change  would  benefit  her,  and  it  was  decided  that  she  should 
visit  a  friend  in  New  York  who  had  long  been  pressing  her  to 
come,  and  who  would  take  good  care  of  her. 

"  I  would  not  wish  to  be  with  Evra  at  a  hotel,"  Bethesda 
said.  "  She  will  be  in  a  turmoil,  and  I  shall  really  visit  with 
her  better  being  somewhere  else.  Besides,  the  Dowtons  would 
be  rightfully  offended  if  I  went  anywhere  rather  than  to  them." 

The  arrangements  were  soon  made,  and  Bethesda  was  to 
leave  with  her  uncle  next  day. 

"  I  only  wish  you  were  going  to  be  there,"  said  Bethesda  to 


294  BETHESDA.  [PART  u. 

her  sister,  with  a  peculiar  yearning.  "  I  don't  know  how  to  be 
away  from  you  any  more." 

"  It  will  be  good  for  you  both  to  discover,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Stanhope.  "  Margaret  and  the  baby  shall  come  over  to  me 
while  you  are  gone,  and  you  will  come  back  all  the  fresher  to 
one  another." 

"  We  never  needed  that,  did  we,  Beth  1 " 

"  No,  dear ;  I  have  no  fear  of  our  tiring  one  another." 

Mr.  Stanhope's  companionship  on  the  journey  east  was  a 
great  relief  to  his  niece,  for  she  shrank  with  unusual  timidity 
from  being  alone  with  the  knowledge  that  Rene'  was  in  America, 
and  probably  aware  of  all  her  movements.  It  was  really  some- 
thing of  a  comfort,  too,  to  leave  Marcot  behind.  His  presence 
had  become  irksome  to  her,  yet  she  disliked  to  dismiss  him,  for 
he  was  irreproachable  in  service  and  discretion ;  but  she  felt 
she  could  be  less  guarded  when  he  was  fairly  left  behind. 
Perhaps  later  it  would  be  advisable,  not  alone  on  her  own 
account,  to  send  him  away  altogether. 

Guinevere  had  particularly  requested  Bethesda  not  to  come 
down  to  the  dock  to  meet  her.  "  Come  instead  to  the  hotel 
when  you  know  I  have  arrived,  and  once  more  I  shall  hold  you 
in  my  arms  and  press  you  to  the  heart  whose  love  you  have 
known  and  touched" 

Bethesda  did  as  she  was  bidden,  had  a  telegram  sent  her 
when  the  steamer  came,  and  at  last  started  off  one  snowy  after- 
noon, dressed  with  especial  daintiness,  to  meet  the  friend  she 
had  not  seen  since  that  summer  day  in  London  so  long  ago. 

She  had  sent  flowers  before  her  to  give  the  artist  a  silent 
welcome,  and  when  she  entered  the  parlour  reserved  to  Made- 
moiselle Cinoni's  use  the  room  was  full  of  fragrance,  if  empty. 
In  an  instant,  however,  the  door  was  flung  open  with  an 
impetuosity  which  brought  a  smile  to  Bethesda's  lips,  and 
Guinevere,  tall,  golden-haired,  insistent  as  ever,  stood  before 
her,  and  held  her  hands,  and  searched  her  face,  and  then  took 
her,  furs  and  all,  into  a  passionate  embrace. 

"You  are  my  Lily  just  as  you  were!"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Only  I  had  not  dreamed  you  could  change  so,  and  still  be  my 
own.  And  I, — would  you  know  me  1 " 

She  held  Bethesda  off,  and  seized  her  eyes  with  a  look  which 
was  penetrating  yet  trustful. 

"No  one  could  ever  mistake  you,"  said  Bethesda  with 


CHAP,  xin.]  POWER  OF  CHARACTER.  295 

admiring  warmth.  "  Dear  Evra  !  it  is  so  natural  to  see  you — 
and  yet  so  strange." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  you  are  thinking  of  your  aunt.  True,  child. 
We  have  gone  through  much  since  we  were  last  together,  I  as 
well  as  you.  But  we  can  never  lose  the  grasp  of  one  another's 
hearts  which  we  took,  and  held,  and  will  hold  for  ever.  Come, 
love ;  let  us  sit  down  and  give  me  time  to  feel  I  actually  have 
you.  No,  you  sha'n't  undo  your  cloak ;  let  me.  Didn't  I  use 
to  be  your  maid  ?  I  haven't  forgotten  my  old  ways.  Do  you 
remember  the  bon-bons  and  the  lilies  ?  Ah,  sweet !  it  was 
good  of  you  to  send  me  these.  Here  are  some  roses,  too,  such 
as  you  used  to  like.  Not  from  you  ? " 

She  took  up  the  card  lying  among  them,  then  glanced 
sharply  at  Bethesda.  Seeing  her  unsuspecting  face  she  threw 
the  card  immediately  aside. 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  care  for  them.  Here,  take  this  chair 
by  the  fire.  Now,  don't  rebel.  You  know  I  am  well  aware  of 
your  habit  of  saying  '  No '  and  '  No,'  and  I  just  don't  mind  it 
at  all !  Here  you  sit,  dear,  and  here  I  sit,"  pulling  forward  a 
stool  and  placing  herself  quickly  at  Bethesda's  feet.  "  Ah,  now 
I  am  happy  !  I  will  just  hold  your  hand,  carissima  mia,  and 
we  will  be  still.  I  must  realise  you." 

Bethesda  submitted  quietly.  How  familiar  it  all  was,  and 
how  fresh  and  frank  this  artist's  heart  had  kept  during  these 
years  of  gaslight  glare !  One  could  see  the  experience  in  her 
face,  however ;  in  the  faint  lines  on  her  forehead,  the  proud 
glance  of  the  eyes,  the  widened  nostrils,  the  decision  and 
haughty  indifference  of  the  mouth.  The  artist  was  there  also 
stronger  than  ever;  the  intensity,  the  assured  capacity,  the 
power  of  enthusiasm,  were  heightened  and  steadied.  Bethesda 
looked  forward  to  seeing  her  in  some  great  part  with  an  antici- 
pative  thrill. 

"  Well  1 "  said  Miss  Conover,  breaking  the  silence  with  a 
full  glance  upwards,  and  a  closer  pressure  of  the  hand.  But 
without  waiting  for  Bethesda  to  reply,  she  went  on  :  "I  must 
tell  you,  dearest,  how  free  and  true  I  feel  just  here,  humbly  at 
your  feet.  I  believe  the  touch  of  this  little  hand  has  lifted 
from  me  the  weight  of  a  hundred  prisoners'  chains.  You  don't 
know  what  my  life  has  been,  Beth  ;  such  suspicion,  and  distrust, 
and  rancour  ;  and  all  the  time,  night  and  day,  having  to  defend 
myself,  and  guard  my  thoughts  not  to  become  bitter  and  hating 


296  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

too.  And  now,  here  I  come  to  you,  I  feel  you,  and  all  the 
best  I  have  lived,  all  the  glories  of  my  art,  and  the  noble  ideals 
it  lends  me  for  a  time,  filter  through  into  myself,  my  me.  You 
do  this,  love.  Each  lineament  of  your  face  shows  how  you  and 
your  ideal  are  one,  and  helps  me  to  feel  mine  so  too.  Some 
one  said  that,  'in  his  hand  her  soul  felt  safe  and  free.'  Mine 
does  in  yours,  Bethesda." 

"  Dear  Evra  ! "  said  Bethesda  in  a  deeply  touched  tone,  "  it 
is  because  you  are  so  true  an  artist  that  you  feel  this.  Don't 
rob  yourself  to  lavish  praise  on  me." 

"  I  don't  !  Haven't  I  tried  to  be  just  this  and  failed  1  I 
have  fought  for  it,  cried  for  it,  prayed  for  it,  and — lost  it. 
Now,  with  one  little  touch,  in  an  instant  you  give  it  me." 

Her  head  fell  into  Bethesda's  lap,  and  the  hand  she  loved 
wandered  caressingly  and  in  silence  over  the  soft  curls.  It 
spoke  too  much,  however,  for  Guinevere  rose  abruptly. 

"  I  can't  stand  it !  "  she  said  in  a  choked  voice,  and  went 
swiftly  out  of  the  room. 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Conover  entered,  and  greeted  Bethesda 
cordially,  although  she  looked  anxious. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  to  my  daughter  ? "  she  asked, 
half  smiling.  "I  have  not  seen  her  so  overcome  in  a  long 
time." 

"  She  is  tired  from  the  voyage,  and  the  excitement  of  meet- 
ing again  has,  I  think,  surprised  her  into  a  momentary  weakness. 
She  is  well  1  She  looks  so." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  She  begins  rehearsals  to-morrow.  They 
are  in  a  great  hurry  for  her  to  appear.  They  won't  give  her 
much  time.  It  is  a  disadvantageous  arrangement,  but  she 
would  listen  to  nothing  in  her  eagerness  to  come  to  America. 
You  will  be  at  her  debut  ?  She  is  not  frightened  any  more  as 
she  used  to  be, — unless  you  frighten  her,  my  dear.  And  how 
is  your  sister  ?  And  poor  Mrs.  Trescott's  baby  ?  We  have 
taken  such  an  interest  in  everything.  Are  you  quite  well  your- 
self now?  I  believe,  my  child,  the  baby  has  made  a  little 
mother  of  you.  You  seem  like  a  married  woman." 

"  Do  I  ? "  said  Bethesda,  with  a  rather  sad  smile.  "  Our 
May-Flower  certainly  exerts  a  great  influence  over  us,  almost  as 
much  as  her  mother  used  to,  in  a  different  way.  I  wish  yoxi 
could  see  her.  She  does  not  look  at  all  like  Aunt  Mabel  un- 
fortunately, but  she  is  very  winning." 


CHAP,  xiii.]  A  WRAITH  ?  297 

"  Oh,  I  can  fancy  that,  Mrs.  Trescott  was  so  charming. 
But  you  should  just  see  Vera  with  a  child.  A  friend  of  hers 
had  one,  and  she  worshipped  it.  She  used  to  slip  away  from 
the  parlour  in  the  evening  and  go  upstairs  to  sing  it  to  sleep. 
Sometimes  the  whole  household  would  crowd  around  the  door 
to  listen ;  but  she  never  knew  it.  I  kept  that  little  domestic 
pleasure  for  her  undisturbed.  You  can't  fancy  how  she  has 
improved,  but  you  shall  hear  !  How  very  good  it  was  of  you 
to  strew  such  sweet  praise  in  her  path  before  she  came  !  Your 
name  now Ah,  here  she  comes." 

Guinevere  had  conquered  her  emotion,  and  was  during  the 
rest  of  the  interview  quite  her  usual  brisk,  entertaining,  and 
brilliant  self.  She  had  a  thousand  stories  to  tell,  and  told 
them  with  admirable  spirit.  But  she  would  not  let  Bethesda 
talk  much.  Something  in  the  low  tones  threatened  her  newly 
won  composure. 

As  Bethesda  was  going  away  she  took  her  in  her  arms  and 
whispered : 

"  When  you  see  me  again  you  won't  affect  me  so.  Come 
often,  dear ;  I  need  you.  If  I  am  out  I  will  leave  word  for 
you,  and  I  will  run  in  to  you  whenever  I  can  catch  a  minute. 
Wrap  yourself  well,  sweet.  Good-bye." 

She  said  good-bye,  but  she  held  her  Lily  still  locked  in  a 
close  embrace. 

"What  are  you  ?"  she  broke  out  at  last.  "Are  you  here 
in  my  arms  or  not  ?  I  believe  I  shall  mid  you  died  a  week 
ago,  and  this  is  your  spirit  come  to  visit  me.  Well,  go,  if  you 
must.  But  don't  vanish  entirely.  I  shall  see  if  you  exist  to- 
morrow. You  laugh  1  It  is  no  laughing  matter.  Still,  I 
have  your  card,  and  we  shall  see." 

Guinevere  found  her  friend  in  existence  the  next  day,  and 
for  many  days  after,  and  gradually  she  became  used  to  her  and 
lost  the  feeling  of  insubstantiality  which  had  at  first  haunted 
her.  However,  she  did  not  feel  satisfied  in  regard  to  her,  and 
groped  in  the  dark,  as  it  were,  for  the  keynote  to  this  elusive 
harmony. 

The  name  of  Eene  d'Isten  was  for  long  not  mentioned  be- 
tween them.  Bethesda  had  become  so  unfamiliar  to  the  sound 
of  it  that  it  would  have  startled  her,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
now  he  was  seldom  absent  from  her  thoughts.  Being  away 
from  Margaret  and  the  baby,  and  all  the  surroundings  of  her 


298  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

new  life,  .and  again  with  comparative  strangers  and  Evra,  as 
she  had  been  in  the  old  days,  brought  the  past  continually 
before  her.  Even  Mrs.  Trescott  seemed  less  absent  than  when 
her  child  was  present,  and  except  when  Bethesda  was  with  the 
Conovers  her  life  seemed  to  move  among  shadows ;  a  feeling 
that  made  her  look  to  the  long  future  at  times  with  a  half- 
unconscious  dread. 

The  night  that  Mademoiselle  Cinoni  made  her  debut, 
Bethesda  felt  herself  transported  bodily  to  the  Pergola  in 
Florence,  and,  when  a  voice  addressed  her,  turned  almost  ex- 
pecting to  see  Signor  Straora.  Yet  everything  around  her  was 
different.  The  house  was  an  American  one,  and  if  crammed 
was  capriciously  critical,  and  timid  of  applause.  As  the  opera 
went  forward,  however,  Bethesda  forgot  herself  and  her  sur- 
roundings completely.  One  in  the  audience  felt  it  safe  for  him 
to  keep  his  glass  fixed  upon  her  face,  recognising  each  shade  of 
emotion,  yet  unafraid  of  detection. 

Mademoiselle  Cinoni  was  at  her  best,  which  was  superb. 
The  tenor  supported  her  admirably,  and  the  matchless  beauty 
of  the  opera  was  rendered  with  perfection.  The  house  from 
being  cold  and  hesitating,  became  quite  Italian  with  enthusiasm. 
An  opera  so  sung  had  never  before  been  heard  in  America,  and 
neither  had  the  applause  to  which  it  gave  rise.  Bethesda  was 
in  one  of  the  stage-boxes,  and  was  recognised  by  some  as  the 
authoress  whose  name  had  endorsed  the  singer  before  them. 
The  fact  passed  from  one  to  another  between  the  acts,  and 
when  she  let  fall  a  mass  of  lilies  at  her  friend's  feet,  which  was 
immediately  caught  up  with  a  glance  of  gratitude,  a  wave  of 
tribute  broke  over  the  house,  which  was  an  acknowledgment  of 
both  the  season's  favourites. 

In  talking  the  evening  over  next  day,  Guinevere  said,  some- 
what abruptly : 

"Monsieur  d'Isten  was  there.  Did  you  know  he  was  a 
marquis  now  ? " 

"  I  had  heard  of  it.  When  did  he  lose  his  father  1 "  asked 
Bethesda  calmly. 

"  Only  a  short  time  ago ;  about  three  months  now.  He  was 
very  ill  himself  after  it.  The  strain  had  been  a  long  one,  for  it 
was  soon  after  your  sister  telegraphed  us  you  were  better  that 
he  heard  the  news  of  his  father.  Ah  !  those  were  terrible  days, 
dearest !  M.  d'Isten  was  quite  beside  himself  when  we  heard 


CHAP,  xiii.]  TEMPTING.  299 

there  was  no  hope  for  you.  He  entertained  for  you  a  devotion 
so  pure  and  unselfish  that  I  think  at  any  time  he  would  have 
given  his  life  to  spare  you  pain." 

Bethesda  turned  somewhat  paler,  but  she  answered  steadily  : 

"  Do  you  think  so  1     Then,  Evra,  why  is  he  here  now  ? " 

"Let  him  tell  you,  dear;  that  is  all  he  desires.  Yes,  I 
have  seen  him  ;  of  course  I  have.  We  came  quite  close  to- 
gether, through  you,  those  dreadful  weeks  in  Paris.  He  wrote 

to  me  after  you  refused  to  see  him  in  S .     He  did  not  see 

why  you  should  not  trust  him.  I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  him 
I  was  about  to  sail  for  America.  I  was  sure  you  would  let  me 
prevail  upon  you  to  meet  him,  and  allow  him  to  explain  what 
he  has  to  tell  you.  Don't  fear  him.  He  is  an  honourable  man. 
May  I  tell  him  he  can  call  on  you  1  or  will  you  meet  him  here  1 " 

"  Neither,  Guinevere.  How  can  you  ask  it  of  me  ?  It  is 
not  right  that  I  should  meet  him — not  under  existing  circum- 
stances." 

"  What  are  '  existing  circumstances '  1 " 

11  The  present  ones." 

"  Ah  !  dear,  don't  put  me  off.  Be  frank  with  me.  I  assure 
you,  I, — and  you  trust  me1? — that  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  meet — unless " 

"Well?" 

"  Unless  you  are  engaged." 

Bethesda  turned  aside  abruptly  and  did  not  speak. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,  darling ;  believe  me,  I  am 
only  working  for  your  happiness ;  I " 

"  Evra,  where  is  Madame  d'Isten  1 " 

"  Madame  d'Isten  ?     I  have  no  idea." 

"  Enough,  Evra  ;  this  is  a  matter  no  one  but  I  can  under- 
stand— no  one  but  I  should  control.  You  must  trust  me  when 
I  say  firmly,  and  for  the  last  time,  that  I  shall  not  willingly 
meet  Rene'  d'Isten." 

"  Ah  !  if  you  are  so  determined But  let  me  just  say 

this  :  Have  you  no  thought  of  what  he  may  understand  better 
than  you  1 — no  belief  that  he  should  control  anything  1  Beth- 
esda, this  is  not  as.it  should  be ;  you  are  not  frank  with  me  or 
with  your  own  heart." 

Miss  Hamilton  raised  her  eyes  slowly  to  her  friend's  and  let 
them  rest  there.  A  majesty  of  resignation  dominated  all  desire 
in  them  so  royally  that  the  artist  seized  her  hands  with. a  cry : 


300  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

"  Do  as  you  think  best,  my  darling,  but  don't  look  at  me 
like  that !  You  stab  me ! " 

And  Bethesda  pressed  the  contrite  hands,  and  nothing  more 
was  said. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

"  Where  I  found  only  food 

For  self-indulgence,  you  still  blew  a  spark  at  brood 
I'  the  dullest  amber ;  stopped  not  till  self-sacrifice  imbued 
Heaven's  face  with  flame. " 

ROBERT  BBOWNIXQ 

A  FEW  days  later  Mademoiselle  Cinoni  was  singing  at  a  matinee, 
from  which  Bethesda  had  been  detained  by  company.  She 
escaped,  however,  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  went  to  the  hotel 
to  see  Guinevere  as  soon  as  she  should  return.  The  gas  was 
already  lighted  in  the  streets  as  she  left  her  carriage,  and 
twilight  made  the  parlour  dim  and  chill. 

"Put. on  more  coal,  please,"  she  said  to  the  servant,  who 
by  this  time  knew  her  well.  "  Miss  Conover  will  be  cold  when 
she  comes  in.  I  will  wait  for  her." 

"  Shall  I  light  the  gas,  madam  ?" 

"  No,  thanks ;  the  firelight  pleases  me." 

When  he  had  left  the  room  she  laid  aside  her  hat  and  cloak, 
bent  to  see  if  the  jacqueminot  roses  at  her  belt  were  crashed, 
and  then  went  towards  the  grate  slowly,  pressing  her  hands 
together  as  if  she  were  in  pain.  Her  face,  distinct  in  the  half 
glow,  half  gloom,  was  sad.  The  curves  of  her  lips  denoted  a 
renunciation  that  was  made  not  without  sorrow,  and  her  eyes 
shone  with  unshed  tears. 

She  stood  a  few  moments  on  the  hearth  in  her  gray  close- 
clinging  dress,  her  mien  one  of  lassitude  and  depression.  Then 
she  -moved,  with  a  faintly-indicated  gesture  of  shifting  a  burden, 
and  slowly  seated  herself. 

The  next  instant  the  hand  she  had  allowed  to  drop  over  the 
arm  of  her  chair  was  seized  and  held  and  kissed  again  and 
again.  Some  one  knelt  beside  her  with  bowed  head,  murmur- 
ing, in  broken  syllables : 

"  Esda !     My  beloved  Esda  !     My  Bdthesda !" 

The  passive  fingers  grew  icy  under  his  lips  before  he  dared 
look  up.  The  chill  silence  shocked  him.  What  had  happened  1 


CHAI-.  xiv.]  PLEADING.  301 

Her  face  was  ashen ;  her  eyes  closed.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet  in  alarm. 

"  Leave  me  !  "  she  said  then  faintly. 

He  went  away  at  once ;  not  out  of  the  room,  but  to  the 
window  at  the  end  of  it,  and  stood  there  indecisive. 

What  should  he  do  ?  If  he  left  her  now,  his  last  chance 
was  gone,  and  if  he  stayed  he  might  kill  her  before  she  learned 
what  he  meant.  But  he  could  not  give  her  up !  He  must 
discover  what  this  meant,  this  coldness  and  suffering — the  one 
so  apparent,  the  other  intentionally  concealed. 

Gradually  he  turned  so  as  to  be  able  to  see  her  without 
seeming  to  do  so.  She  was  recovering ;  she  was  sitting  upright 
now,  her  hand  to  her  heart.  Suspense  was  worse  than  death 
to  them  both.  He  went  swiftly  to  her  side. 

"  Be'thesda,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  wife.     Be  mine." 

He  waited  for  some  response,  but  she  gave  him  none.  She 
was  gathering  the  strength  she  knew  she  must  command,  in 
long  stifled  breaths. 

At  last  he  went  and  knelt  before  her,  where  the  full  light 
from  the  fire  could  strike  his  face. 

"  Esda,"  he  pleaded,  "  I  beseech  you  to  look  at  me.  Read 
in  my  face  what  you  can.  I  have  nothing  to  fear,  and  once  it 
was  an  open  book  to  you  as  was  my  soul." 

"  Hush  ! " 

"  I  cannot  longer  be  silent ! "  he  exclaimed  passionately. 
"  I  have  waited  and  waited  for  you  to  trust  me.  I  must 
exculpate  myself.  I  beg  your  forgiveness  for  having  forced 
my  way  into  your  presence.  If  your  heart  does  not  intercede 
for  me  after  these  years  of  thirst  I  will  not  attempt  it.  I  have 
not  time.  Listen,  Be'thesda ;  look  at  me  and  tell  me,  are  you 
afraid  of  my  deceiving  you — you  who  are  omnipresent,  omni- 
potent with  me  ?  I  have  obeyed  you  with  unwavering  persist- 
ence for  two  whole  years.  I  have  done  with  joy  all  you-  told 
me,  because  it  was  your  wish.  And,  Be'thesda,  I  have  had 
during  the  darkest  times  a  sure  faith  that  Heaven  would 
reward  us.  God  gives  it  to  you,  Esda,  to  be  my  heaven  on 
earth ;  you  cannot  refuse  !  Why  would  you  not  see  me  ?  You 
knew  I  would  not  have  come  to  you  until  I  was  free,  and  could 
claim  you  before  all  the  world  as  my  own.  You  are  mine ; 
you  cannot  deny  it.  You  are  killing  yourself  in  trying  to  deny 
it.  Beloved,  take  what  God  offers  you  and  share  it  with  me. 


302  BETHESDA.  [I-AIIT  n. 

Let  us  enjoy  life  purely.  God  offers  it  to  us,  Be'thesda ;  we 
must  not  refuse." 

In  spite  of  his  ardent  words  he  had  not  dared  move  towards 
her.  Something  held  him  away.  He  felt  her  far  off,  as  if  the 
remorseless  ocean  rolled  its  waves  between  them  still. 

"  Rene*,  you  have  spoken,  let  me  speak."  Her  voice,  faint 
at  first,  grew  clearer  as  she  proceeded.  "  Once  you  overcame 
all  my  scruples,  one  by  one.  I  have  been  taught  my  weakness 
and  your  power,  and  I  have  not  come  to  this  moment  unpre- 
pared. You  must  understand  that  I  am  firm  when  I  say  I  can 
never  marry  you." 

"  Be'thesda ! " 

"  Hush,  you  must  hear  me  now.  Think  how  we  tempted 
one  another  away  from  our  allegiance  to  right,  to  duty,  and  you 
will  see " 

"You  never  'tempted'  me,"  burst  out  Rene'  irrepressibly, 
"  unless  it  were  to  purity  and  fidelity.  You  put  your  hand  on 
me  and  said :  Be  faithful  to  Louise,  and  I  obeyed  you.  But 
now  all  my  allegiance  to  her  is  severed.  I  never  was  hers,  and 
I  now,  heart  and  soul,  am  yours.  It  is  to  you  alone  I  owe 
fealty." 

"  You  owe  no  fealty  to  me,  my  friend, — that  is  another  error 
into  which  we  fell.  It  is  not  to  persons  so  much  that  we  owe 
duties  as  to  ourselves  and  to  God.  Your  conscience  is  too 
precious  a  charge  to  give  to  any  one  but  him.  That  was  where 
I  injured  you  before." 

"  As  if  you  ever  injured  me  !  I  would  leave  it  with  the 
good  God  to-day  to  declare  if  I  am  not  a  better  man  than  when  I 
met  you ;  ay,  Be'thesda,  a  better  man."  And  Bethesda,  recog- 
nising the  stronger  manhood  in  him,  could  not  disbelieve  it. 
"  When  I  look  towards  God,  beloved,  I  cannot  help  seeing  you, 
because  you  are  above  me,  and  nearer  him.  Do  not  shrink, 
Be'thesda,  for  I  speak  reverently.  I  found  the  tenderness 
and  pity  of  God  during  your  illness  when  he  answered  my 
prayers  and  made  you  well.  The  weight  of  my  conscience 
shall  never  rest  again  upon  you,  I  promise  you ;  but  my  con- 
science, yes,  God  himself,  who  is  love,  tells  me  to  claim  you, 
to  make  you  mine.  I  am  free.  I  am  free,  Be'thesda;  you 
cannot  put  me  back  in  those  chains  which  weighed  on  my 
soul  and  your  tender  heart.  Beloved,  you  cannot  refuse  me. 
I  hold  your  heart,  come  to  me  and  let  us  be  at  rest." 


CHAP,  xiv.]  THE  CRUCIAL  MOMENT.  303 

He  held  out  his  arms  towards  her  with  an  eloquent  appeal, 
but  she  shrank  into  her  chair,  and  clenched  her  hands  tight. 

"  Ma  bien  aime'e ! "  exclaimed  Rene',  a  newly  aroused 
anxiety  in  his  voice  :  "  Thou  dost  love  me  1  Thou  wilt  not  bo 
obdurate  1  Thou  wilt  not  condemn  one  who'  loves  each  breath 
thou  drawest,  to  exile  from  thee  ?  See,  Esda ;  my  father  is  no 
more ;  nothing  longer  binds  me  to  Europe.  I  will  come  to 
America,  and  live  where  thou  desirest.  Anything,  so  that  we 
are  together.  Thou  must,  love.  Thy  fragile  life  cannot  bear 
this  strain.  Thy  petals,  my  rose,  are  closing  over  the  grief 
which  consumes  thee.  Let  me  snatch  it  from  thee,  dearest,  and 
fill  thy  heart  with  rejoicing.  I  can,  for  thou  lovest  me." 

Bethesda  could  not  speak,  but  made  a  negative  sign. 

"Thou  dost  not  love  me1?"  exclaimed  Rene*,  seizing  her 
hand.  "  Thou  canst  not  say  it !  Each  touch  of  these 
slender  fingers  betrays  thee !  Thou  dost  love  me !  thou  wilt 
always  love  me.  I  hold  thy  heart;  I  shall  never  let  it  go, 
so  help  me  God."  Then  his  voice  suddenly  fell  to  low, 
persuasive  accents :  "  Give  me  this  hand,  Be'thesda.  It  is 
small ;  it  is  kind.  Since  I  have  the  wealth  of  thy  heart,  add 
this  little,  dear  hand.  It  will  lose  thee  nothing ;  it  will  give 
me  all.  Silent  still  1  Ah,  God  !  was  ever  grief  like  this  !  To 
see  her  dying,  and  feel  my  very  vitals  gnawed  with  hunger  to 
save  her,  and  she  refuses  me  !  Esda,  Be'thesda,  it  shall  not  be  ! 
Thou  canst  not  do  this  thing,  for  I  will  not  let  thee.  If  thou 

didst  not  love  me  I  would  not  complain,  but  now Feel 

my  heart  !  its  throbs  are  each  a  tribute  to  you.  You  have  my 
life  in  your  hands.  Do  not  spill  the  warm  blood  that  would 
pour  itself  into  your  veins  to  nourish  you.  I  cannot  live  longer 
without  thee,  Be'thesda  !  I  will  follow  thee  about  the  world ; 
I  will  renounce  all  else  to  wait  upon  thee,  thy  shadow  not 
closer  nor  more  persistent.  And  to  my  importunity  thou  wilt 
yield  what  thou  wilt  not  to  my  love !  Bdthesda,  ma  toute 
aimee,  look  upon  thy  servant  and  kill  him  not ! " 

He  flung  himself  at  her  knees,  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  A  new  strength,  not  her  own,  seemed  to  enter  into 
Bethesda's  anguished  heart. 

"  Rene',  look  at  me,"  she  said.  He  lifted  grief-stricken  eyes 
to  hers.  "Tell  me;  if — if  I  married  you  and  should  die, 
would  you  not  feel  your  life  sacred  to  me  1 " 

"  In  death  as  in  life,"  said  Rend  solemnly. 


304  15ETIIMSDA.  [I'.VUT  ii. 

"  Then  it  is  your  duty  to  feel  the  same,  to  act  at  least  the 
same,  to  Louise.  Love  only  makes  duty  passionately  present, 
and  as  long  as  your  body  is  one  with  your  soul,  you  and  your 
wife  are  one  flesh." 

Rene'  rose  in  bewilderment. 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  simply  because  I  have  been  married 
you  would  not  marry  me,  even  if  Louise  were  dead  1  No,  no, 
Bdthesda,  that  would  be  folly." 

"  '  Even  if  she  were,' "  quoted  Bethesda  wonderingly. 
" Does  she  still  live?  Did  you  not  say  she  died  last  spring?" 

She  was  looking  at  him  piercingly  now,  and  under  her  eyes 
his  fell. 

"I  lost  her  then,  yes,"  said  Rene',  feeling  an  irresistible 
sense  of  equivocation  before  this  clear  soul. 

But  she  had  been  shocked  into  an  acute  consciousness  of — 
was  it  concealment  or  duplicity  ? — in  him.  It  wrung  her  heart, 
but  it  severed  her  from  him,  and  made  her  keen  after  the  truth. 
She  rose,  struck  a  match,  and  lit  the  drop-light,  then  turned 
to  him  with  a  grave  authority. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said  simply.  "  How  did  she  die  ? 
What  caused  her  death  ? " 

Rend  looked  at  her  and  down  again,  aground  for  a  moment, 
but  he  made  his  decision,  and  floated  free  quickly. 

"  It  is  a  sad  story,  my  Bdthesda,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of 
merciful  withholding.  "  Do  not  let  us  speak  of  it  now.  Let 
it  suffice  that  I  assure  you  solemnly  I  am  free, — free  absolutely, 
by  law,  by  heart,  and  by  intent." 

"  But  I  must  know,"  said  Bethesda,  looking  at  him  with 
clear,  commanding  eyes.  "  You  used  to  say  you  spoke  freely 
to  me ;  do  so  now,  this  once  more,  Rend,  for  I  ought  to 
know." 

Rend  felt  her  supremacy,  and  his  habit  of  giving  obedience 
where  he  gave  confidence  reasserted  itself  in  an  unlooked-for 
manner.  But,  if  she  knew  the  truth,  his  cause  would  be  lost. 
No,  why  should  it  ?  On  the  contrary  it  might  vanquish  that 
uncomprehended  notion  of  hers  to  find  that  he  had  never  been 
married.  And  was  not  love  the  true  marriage  ?  He  had  often 
heard  her  say  so. 

"Listen  then,  since  you  insist,"  he  began.  "I  desire 
nothing  so  much  as  to  lay  my  whole  life  in  your  hands.  I 
would  have  spared  you  what  cannot  help  but  pain  your  large 


CHAP,  xiv.]  PLEADING  KEVERSED.  305 

heart,  for  it  means  suffering  to  another,  but  as  always  I  obey 
you.     Louise  was  never  my  wife." 

"  Never  your  wife ! "  repeated  Bethesda  in  low  tones  of 
dismay. 

"  No ;  the  marriage  was  illegal.  We  neither  of  us  sus- 
pected it  for  years,  but  her  lover  proved  it  to  me  not  long  ago. 
She  never  was  other  than  Louise  Manddras."  And  then  he 
told  her  of  the  law  forbidding  the  intermarriage  of  French  and 
foreigners  on  foreign  soil.  "  But  we  could  arrange  that.  You 
could  go  with  your  aunt  to  France,  and  there " 

"  Hush  !  How  can  you  speak  of  marriage  to  me,  to  any  one 
but  Louise ! "  She  sat  erect  in  her  chair,  as  though  it  were 
the  throne  of  judgment.  "  Your  whole  honour  binds  you  to 
her.  She  is  your  wife  before  God ;  man's  laws  are  insignificant 
beside  those  divine  ones.  You  cannot  help  but  marry  her." 

"But,  che're  Be'thesda,  listen.  Is  not  love  a  divine  law? 
Louise  never  loved  me,  nor  I  her.  She  married  me,  as  we 
thought,  loving  another.  She  did  wrong ;  I  know  you  think 
so.  Would  you,  then,  have  me  commit  the  same  sin  1 " 

"I  would  not  have  you  commit  the  sin  of  deserting  a 
woman  who  had  intrusted  her  honour,  her  life,  to  your  hands, 
no  matter  what  her  feelings.  To  act  you  must  judge  by  acts. 
You  are  her  husband.  You  should  not  have  let  a  day  pass 
before  you  acknowledged  her  lawfully  as  such.  She  knows 
nothing  of  it,  you  say1?  But  think  how  cruel  would  be  her 
fate  did  chance  let  her  know.  Oh,  hasten  back  and  marry 
her  at  once  !  Do  not  linger  an  unnecessary  hour." 

"  If  she  refused  me,  and  preferred  to  marry  one  whom  she 
has  long  loved,  what  then,  Be'thesda  *? "  he  said,  with  slow 
significance.  "  And  she  has  often  wished  to  be  free  from  me ; 
we  both  know  that." 

Bethesda  flinched  a  moment  before  this  possibility,  but  re- 
covered herself  at  once. 

"  Then  show  her  how  wrong  it  would  be,"  she  answered 
promptly.  "Plead  with  her;  point  out  to  her  how  no  man 
could  respect  her  did  she  choose,  wilfully  choose,  to  stigmatise 
her  past  with  dishonour;  less  than  any  other,  a  person  who 
has  acted  as  that  man  has.  How  evil  must  have  been  his  aim 
to  have  proven  this  technicality  to  you !  No,  no,  she  would 
not  so  malign  herself  as  to  choose  him  rather  than  you ;  she 
could  not ;  by  my  woman's  heart,  I  know  it ! " 

x 


306  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

"  Ah,  that  heart,  Bdthesda  !  it  is  mine.  I  will  not  give  it 
it  up." 

"It  is  not  yours,  Rend  d'Isten,"  and  Bethesda  drew  herself 
up  superbly.  "  My  heart  is  no  man's  who  could  leave  any  deed 
undone  to  repair  an  irreparable  loss,  not  only  to  the  woman  he 
has  called  wife  but  to  himself.  Oh,  it  is  the  cruellest  of  my 
punishments  that  I  should  be  the  object  to  stand  between  you 
and  the  performance  of  your  most  manifest  duty  !  Rend,  my 
respect  even  cannot  be  yours  unless  you  return  instantly  to 
France  and  marry  Louise.  I  could  never  forgive  myself,  never 
forgive  you,  if  our  acquaintance  should  thus  degrade  you." 

"  That  is  morbidness,  folly ! "  exclaimed  Rend,  almost 
angrily.  "  Your  morality  is  warped,  Be'thesda,  by  thinking  on 
this  subject  so  near  your  heart.  Is  not  love  the  real  marriage  ? 
And  I  never  loved  Louise,  nor  she  me.  Two  years  ago  when 
you  bade  me  renounce  you,  you  were  a  saint.  It  was  the 
crucifixion  of  your  heart  and  of  mine,  but  you  did  right.  Even 
in  the  bitterest  moments  I  acknowledged  this.  Now  I  say  you 
are  wrong.  You  sacrifice  your  happiness  and  mine ;  your 
health,  my  sanity  perhaps,  to  a  fanciful  duty,  a  morbid  sense 
of  honour.  I  have  given  eight  years  of  my  life  to  Louise  with- 
out succeeding  in  winning  her  love.  Let  that  suffice.  I  will 
do  what  is  right  by  her,  but " 

"  But  nothing  else  than  marriage  can  even  mitigate  this 
terrible  evil,  Rend  'A  fanciful  duty'?  No  duty  could  be 
more  imperative.  What !  You  would  be  '  unlike  other  men ' 
and  yet  live  eight  years  before  the  world  as  a  husband,  and  then 
refuse  to  marry  the  woman  you  called  wife  1  You  would  be 
the  truly  chivalrous  man,  and  leave  a  woman  to  ignominy  who 
had  borne  your  name  ?  You  cannot  do  it,  Rend ;  it  is  not  in 
you.  You  will  marry  her  because  it  is  right,  because  you  owe 
it  to  God  to  redeem  an  innocent  mistake,  or  else  it  becomes  a 
most  guilty  one.  If  it  is  a  sacrifice,  look  upon  it  as  a  proof  of 
repentance  for  the  wrong  we  have  done.  It  will  be  accepted 
as  such,  and  only  such  a  one  can  be  accepted,  for  it  alone  can 
undo  the  wrong.  Trust  me,  Rend." 

He  was  silent  a  few  moments,  overcome  against  his  will 
by  her  words  and  tone. 

"Beloved,  how  can  I  trust  you,"  he  said  at  last,  "when  I 
feel  that  this  is  overleaping  the  limits  of  morality,  and  that  in 
an  endeavour  which  robs  me  of  you,  it  is  killing  you.  Ah  ! 


CHAP,  xiv.]        A  CRUSHING  DISAPPOINTMENT.  307 

dearest,  trust  me  once.  Love  is  the  sovereign  who  dictates 
laws,  who  seizes  our  hearts  and  gives  us  no  liberty  but  in  obey- 
ing his  commands.  Come  to  me,  fear  not.  It  is  what  men 
have  done  always;  it  is  what  every  law  sanctions.  Besides, 
dearest,  it  is  your  life ;  it  is  my  life.  Come." 

She  had  grown  paler  and  paler  as  he  spoke,  and  her  hand 
was  pressed  to  her  side.  Rene'  thought  he  felt  a  wavering  in 
her  mind,  and  tried  to  take  her  hand,  kneeling  beside  her.  But 
she  motioned  him  away. 

"  No,"  she  said  faintly,  "  this — this  hurts  deep.  It  stabs 
me,  Rene',  to  have  such  words  addressed  to  me  by  one  who, 
before  God  and  my  soul,  owes  himself  to  another.  This  proves 
how  unlike  we  are.  We  are  no  longer  one  in  thought  and 
feeling;  we  are  grievously  separated,  more  than  ever  before. 
Go,  Rend.  I  don't  wish  to  see  you  any  more." 

"But  you  love  me,  Bdthesda,"  said  Rend,  with  deep 
reproach. 

"  I  did  love  you ;  you  knew  that ;  it  was  wrong.  Because 
it  was  wrong  I  have  striven  to  overcome  it.  I  need  strive  no 
longer,  for  you  have  killed  it  now.  You  need  not  snatch  my 
hand ;  I  am  not  a  girl  to  be  swept  off  my  feet,  and — and — 
that  I  should  live  to  say  it ! — your  touch  makes  me  shudder." 

Rend  dropped  her  hand,  and  stepped  back  as  if  struck. 
The  recoil  of  his  own  act  hurt  him  too,  and  deeply. 

Presently  Bethesda  raised  her  head  and  the  faint  colour 
came  back  to  her  lips  and  cheeks. 

" But  I  cannot  believe  it,"  she  said.  "It  is  only  because 
you  do  not  see  it  right.  Look  at  it  in  this  way,  Rend.  If  I 
were  to  marry  you  here,  and  you  discovered  that  the  marriage 
was  illegal,  what  would  you  do  then  ? " 

"Take  you  at  once  to  France,  and  marry  you  there." 

"  Then  how  can  you  doubt  that  this  is  your  duty  to  Louise  ? 
What  you  would  do  for  me  because  you  care  for  me,  do  for  her 
because  it  is  right.  If  it  is  hard,  do  it  the  more  gladly  because 
it  shows  you  grieve  for  past  faults.  Show  that  you  are  stronger 
for  temptations  resisted,  by  doing  this  deed." 

"  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me  two  years  ago  as  a 
duty,  Bdthesda,  and  now — I  confess  I  was  in  doubt,  just  at 
first." 

"  Ah,  you  see  !  I  knew  there  must  be  something  there  if 
I  could  only  reach  it.  You  will  go  to  her  1  You  will  persuade 


308  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

her  ?  You  do  not  yourself  think  there  could  be  any  danger  of 
her  choosing  any  one  but  you  1  She  feels  differently  towards  you 
than  she  did  1 — I  knew  it !  I  am  convinced  you  will  both  yet 
be  happy.  Go  to  her ;  show  her  the  position,  for  she  must  see 
to  understand.  Make  her  acknowledge  that  she  prefers  you, 
and  oh,  Rene',  would  I  not  be  glad  !  " 

Her  face  was  radiant  now,  and  her  eyes  starry.  Rene' 
looked  at  the  transformation  in  amazement. 

"  And  would  you  have  nothing  to  regret  ? "  he  said  slowly. 

"  Regret  1  1 1  No,  indeed !  A  moment  ago  I  thought  I 
had  lost  you  really,  vitally ;  that  you  were  ignoble.  I  see  now 
you  were  but  trying  me.  But  if  you  can  accomplish  an  har- 
monious union  between  yourself  and  your  wife  you  will  give  me 
the  keenest  happiness.  I  feel  a  great  weight  lifted  from  me, 
for  I  believe  it  is  possible,  and  that  you  will  not  fail.  I  am  sure 
you  will  not.  A  steamer  sails  to-morrow,  some  friends  of  mine 
go  by  it ;  go  too,  and  telegraph  me  when  she  has  acknowledged 
her  affection  for  you  and  you  are  really  married.  That  shall 
be  the  last  word  between  us,  and  what  a  good  word! — You 
will?" 

There  was  a  little  silence,  while  Bethesda's  eyes  seemed  to 
seize  his  very  soul  and  hold  it  to  her  high  purpose.  Then : 

"  I  never  disobeyed  you  yet,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  not  now. 
I  will  do  my  best. 

"  Ah,  my  true  B&hesda ! "  he  exclaimed  presently,  recog- 
nising that  he  had  won  his  own  highest  approval  in  winning 
hers.  "  Each  time  I  approach  you  I  see  a  new  height  of  truth. 
You  have  cured  me  of  one  evil  after  another  ever  since  the  pool 
of  your  heart  was  first  stirred  for  me." 

"  No,  it  is  only  Christ  who  can  do  that,"  she  answered 
softly.  "He  bids  you  drop  the  burden  of  the  past  and  go 
forward  in  a  new  life,  free.  He  will  bless  you  in  it,  Rene" ;  go." 


CHAP,  xv.]  RESULTS.  309 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"  Through  love  to  light !     Oh  wonderful  the  way, 
That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day  I 
From  darkness  and  from  dolor  of  the  night, 
To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er  the  sea. 
Through  love  to  light !  through  light,  0  God,  to  Thee 
Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal  light  of  light !  " 

K.  W.  GILDER. 

SEVERAL  years  later  Rend  d'Isten,  with  Louise  upon  his  arm, 
was  going  through  the  Parisian  Salon  on  the  Artist's  Day 
before  the  grand  opening.  He  was  glancing  at  the  pictures  a 
little  carelessly,  more  occupied  with  the  memories  of  seven 
years  ago,  when  he  had  come  here  with  Bethesda  and  Mrs. 
Trescott,  than  with  what  surrounded  him,  although  he  did  not 
fail  in  delicate  attentions  to  his  wife. 

His  face  showed  the  time  and  experience  that  had  passed, 
yet  with  all  its  recueillement  it  was  not  sad.  There  was  a 
compact  force  of  character,  a  unity  of  purpose,  a  continual 
surety  of  uprightness,  which  gave  new  dignity  to  his  features, 
and  made  each  line  a  mark  of  honour.  If  his  life  was  much  in 
the  past,  the  present  was  unusually  full  of  large  aims  and  noble 
endeavour,  and  the  toying  with  life  which  had  once  been  a 
delight  to  him  had  now  given  place  to  earnest  work.  At  the 
present  moment,  however,  he  was  for  a  rarity  dreaming. 

Louise  had  changed  much  more  markedly  than  Rend.  There 
was  a  content  and  self-control  in  her  face  never  seen  there  pre- 
viously, and  her  eyes  were  often  turned  with  solicitous  tender- 
ness to  her  husband's  face.  She  frequently  thought  in  recurring 
to  that  stormy  scene  five  years  ago,  when  she  had  heard  of  his 
devotion,  her  lover's  perfidy,  and  the  Ame'ricaine's  nobility,  that 
some  good  power  had  guided  her  to  choose  that  better  part 
which  should  not  be  taken  from  her.  Her  husband  was  ever 
near  to  uphold  and  guide  her,  and  she  was  quite  willing  that 
he  should  dream  occasionally,  for  it  proved  his  freedom  in  her 
presence.  She  knew  that  she  was  never  irksome  to  him  now. 

The  people  round  them  meantime  were  neither  dreaming  nor 
pondering.  They  were  all  extremely  interested  in  the  exhibi- 
tion. Picturesque  men  with  eccentric  manners,  and  "  artist " 
written  on  each  article  of  their  dress  ;  women  with  more  brains 


310  BETHESDA.  [PART  n. 

— of  a  kind — and  less  timidity  than  ordinary  womanhood 
possesses ;  scattered  members  of  the  haute-volee  amusing  them- 
selves with  the  scene ;  all  thronged  through  the  rooms  to- 
gether, examining,  criticising,  and  babbling.  Every  one  seemed 
to  tend  with  a  rather  remarkable  unanimity  to  the  central 
apartment  where  the  prize  picture  hung.  The  d'Istens  drifted 
with  the  rest,  hearing  indifferently  the  remarks  of  this  or  that 
one  near  them. 

"  It  is  by  an  Italian,"  said  one. 

"  '  The  Answer  to  the  Sphinx ! ' "  laughed  another,  turning 
the  leaves  of  a  catalogue.  "  What  a  name  ! " 

"  More  of  a  mystery  than  the  question,"  sneered  a  third. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu,  these  Italians  ! "  cried  a  brilliantly-dressed 
woman.  "  What  ideas  they  do  have,  there  in  the  land  of  the 
Beatrice  !  I  demand  it  of  you,  messieurs,  did  such  a  woman 
as  this  '  Answer '  ever  live  1 " 

"Ma  foi !  not  in  Paris." 

"  Does  she  look  Italian,  then  ?"  asked  the  woman  triumph- 
antly, "Gold-brown  hair,  and  eyes  of —  Well,  you  shall 
tell  me  what  shade  they  are.  The  prize,  indeed  !  The  man  does 
not  know  how  to  mix  his  colours." 

Here  they  reached  the  threshold  of  the  centre  room,  and 
suddenly  all  the  chatter  fell  away  from  Ren^  d'lsten's  hearing 
as  if  he  had  been  lifted  to  another  region  by  one  sweep  of  a 
powerful  wing.  Before  him  was  the  almost  breathing  form  of 
Bdthesda  Hamilton. 

She  stood,  dressed  in  the  warm  white  she  loved,  her  head 
turned  a  little  upwards,  as  if  she  had  but  just  let  her  eyes  fall 
from  some  great  vision,  to  meet,  and  hold,  and  exalt,  the  sight 
of  those  who  looked  upon  her. 

When  one  could  leave  the  eyes  for  a  moment,  one  noticed 
the  brows,  serene  in  spite  of  their  capacity  for  suffering ;  the 
exquisite  contour  from  forehead  to  chin,  and  the  willing  resigna- 
tion of  the  mouth,  which  made  it  truly  joyous. 

It  was  a  face  beyond  compare,  and  it  was  a  faultless 
painting.  Louise  had  seen  photographs  of  Be'thesda,  and  she 
recognised  the  face,  and  admitted  its  supremacy.  She  tightened 
her  clasp  a  little,  unconsciously,  on  her  husband's  arm,  as  they 
stood  beneath  the  gaze  which  met  and  held  them  both  above 
all  earthly  strife.  This  was  the  woman  he  had  left  to  come  to 
her  and  retrieve  her  from  dishonour.  A  deep  humility  over- 


CHAP,  xv.]  AN  IDEAL.  311 

spread  her  face.  She  looked  up  at  Rene'.  He  was  wrapped  in 
an  exalted  enthusiasm.  The  painting  made  alive  to  him  B£th- 
esda's  books  which  came  year  after  year  and  laid  their  treasures 
wide  before  him.  It  reinvigorated  his  noblest  aims  and  truest 
endeavours.  He  turned  to  his  wife  and  pressed  her  hand 
against  his  side. 

"  She  needs  no  mortals,"  he  said.  "  Long  since  I  called  her 
a  saint.  She  is  that.  No  one  can  touch  her.  She  is  above 
us  all,  and  she  smiles  down  on  our  union,  my  Louise.  Thus 
did  she  look  when  she  told  me  her  keenest  happiness  would  be 
in  seeing  us  truly  united.  She  sees  us  now." 

Louise's  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears  at  the  tenderness  of 
his  tone.  All  the  bitterness  of  jealousy  was  replaced  by  this 
sweetness.  She  clung  to  him  a  moment  with  both  hands. 

A  laugh,  a  Parisian  laugh,  low  and  keen,  startled  them. 

"Why  do  they  paint  impossibilities?"  queried  a  languid 
voice.  "  I  find  angels  much  too  unreal  for  me.  Some  lover's 
vision  1  Of  course  !  How  silly  they  are  !  "  and  another  laugh 
rounded  the  mocking  sentence  to  completeness. 

It  turned  all  Rend  d'Isten's  thoughts  into  a  new  channel. 
For  a  moment  he  was  madly  jealous  of  the  man  who  had  access 
to  Bdthesda  sufficiently  to  paint  this.  A  man  who  loved  her 
too,  that  was  clear.  Only  a  lover  could  see  her  like  this,  and 
reproduce  her — for  the  Parisian  world  to  scoff  at !  Faugh  ! 
that  was  no  love  !  The  fellow  had  no  sense  of  decency  even  ! 

Yet,  as  he  looked  up  again,  she  seemed  so  unapproachable, 
though  speaking  to  each  one,  and  taintless  as  Goethe's  angels 
throwing  the  flowers  of  love  into  hell,  that  he  could  not  feel  her 
sullied ;  not  as  he  would  have  done  had  that  other  jasmine- 
faced  picture  hung  here,  questioning  and  wistful. 

Now  all  her  questions  were  answered.     She  knew. 

A  half-hour  later  Rene  d'Isten  turned  and  asked  some  one 
beside  him  who  was  the  artist. 

"  Monsieur  Straora,  an  Italian,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  might  find  him  1 " 

"  He  stands  there,  monsieur." 

The  marquis  looked  and  saw  the  Florentine  painter  absorbed 
in  contemplation  of  his  work. 

"  Let  us  speak  to  him,  Louise,  if  you  do  not  object  1 "  he 
said. 

"  Certainly  not." 


312  BETHESDA.  [PART  a. 

A  few  steps  brought  Rene*  and  his  wife  to  Signer  Straora's 
side. 

"  Monsieur  Straora,  I  believe  1  Pray  allow  me  to  give  you 
my  card  and  claim  acquaintance  through  one  I  have  often  heard 
mention  you,  and  whom  you  have  now  placed  before  us  so 
beautifully.  Madame  d'Isten,  Monsieur  Straora." 

The  artist  bowed,  and  answered  courteously : 

"  I  am  much  pleased  to  meet  you,  Monsieur  le  Marquis. 
When  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Hamilton,  she  had 
recently  received  a  letter,  I  think,  from  Madame  d'Isten.  It 
seemed  to  give  her  great  satisfaction." 

"  Not  sufficient  for  her  to  answer  it,"  said  Louise,  smiling. 
"  But  I  trust  she  is  well  1 " 

"  Quite  well,  for  her ;  at  least  she  was  a  month  ago.  She 
is  delicate,  but  you  see  her  works  1  You  know  then  how  inde- 
fatigably  busy  she  must  be." 

"  And  is  she  really  so  beautiful  as  you  depict  her,  monsieur?" 

The  artist  smiled  as  he  glanced  at  his  work,  but  sobered  in 
so  doing. 

"  I  wish  you  might  meet  her,  madame,  to  see  how  little  I 
have  done  her  justice." 

"I  wish  I  might,  indeed;  but  since  she  does  not  even 
respond  to  my  letters,  will  you  not  call  upon  us  and  tell  us 
about  her  ?  I  confess  I  have  great  curiosity  in  regard  to  a 
woman  who  is  so  exquisite,  and  yet  occupies  herself  only  with 
work,  and  the  care  of  another's  child — which  was  her  life  when 
we  last  heard  of  her,  was  it  not,  Monsieur  d'Isten  ? " 

"Her  whole  interest,  I  believe,"  said  Rene';  "but  that 
would  not  be  apt  to  last." 

"I  see  no  signs  of  its  changing,"  replied  Signor  Straora 
quietly.  "  She  is  more  than  content ;  she  is  happy.  One  could 
not  wish  her  life  to  change,"  and  an  involuntary  sigh  escaped 
him. 

"  Is  the  destiny  of  your  painting  fixed  ? "  asked  Rend  pre- 
sently. 

"  Yes ;  it  is  not  for  sale.  I  shall  have  it  taken  to  Italy 
when  the  Exhibition  is  over.  I  see  you  have  both  gone  to  the 
heart  of  my  subject.  Few  in  Paris  will,  but  it  shall  hang  here 
for  a  while  to  teach  the  city  what  a  woman  may  be." 

The  three  stood  silent  for  some  time,  while  the  eyes  above 
took  possession  of  their  souls  and  led  them  into  the  regions  of 


CHAP,  xv.]  "IT  IS  NOT  LIKE."  313 

peace.  Kene'  had  recognised  that  the  artist's  admiration  of  his 
subject,  though  exalted,  was  impersonal,  and  he  guessed  the 
cause.  Bethesda,  as  he  had  said,  needed  no  mortals.  And 
Louise  could  have  no  jealousy,  for  she  felt  herself  closer  to  her 
husband  now  than  this  woman  could  be. 

But  some  deep  and  uncomprehended  feeling  brought  the 
tears  to  her  eyes.  Kene"  saw  them. 

"My  wife,"  he  bent  to  say,  "she  gave  you  to  me  gladly, 
and  I  thank  her." 

As  Monsieur  and  Madame  d'Isten  turned  away  after  securing 
the  promise  of  a  speedy  call  from  Signer  Straora,  they  heard 
their  new  friend  mutter  to  himself,  still  studying  the  picture  : 

"  And  yet  it  is  not  like,  it  is  not  like." 


THE  END. 


A     000092219     5 


